Nazrul’slyrics ofMor Ghumogore Elo Monohor (In my Sleep, Came the Enchanting One) has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.
Four of his ownMalay poems have been translated by Isa Kamari. Click here to read.
The Heartless, a Balochi story by AbdulQayum Sarbazi, has been translated by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.
Dragonfly 2 has been composed and translated from Korean by Ihlwha Choi. Click here to read.
Tagore’s poem, Amra Choli Somukhpane(We Look Forward and March), has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Clickhere to read.
Pandies Corner
Songs of Freedom: Pink Dreams is an autobiographical narrative by Priyanka, written and compiled by Deeksha Vats. These stories highlight the ongoing struggle against debilitating rigid boundaries drawn by societal norms, with the support from organisations like Shaktishalini and Pandies. Clickhere to read.
Larry S Su, who migrated from a mud cave in Shaanxi province to America, shares his story of the changes he sees during three visits to his home and muses on the gaps he has observed between these two places. Clickhere to read.
Summer, Dune in Zeeland by Piet Mondrain (1872 – 1944)
Time present and time past Are both perhaps present in time future, And time future contained in time past.
‘Burnt Norton’, Four Quartets (1941) by TS Eliot
If we look back in time, we have a better life than that of our ancestors. Though conflicts rage and climate change is a reality that we all dread, it can safely be said, we have progressed beyond the imagination of those who lived a hundred years ago. The fact that some books from the past still reverberate with echoes of what the present holds says much for the outliers or authors who could think out of the box. Despite this complex intermingling of ideas and times, perhaps the world will change more now than before. We do not know anything for sure though experts are always predicting a future that for most of us remains unknown. What we can present is our own estimate of what can be and a definite assertion of what is. Truth as such is a matter of perception. That complicates it further. However, one of the changes that is definitely here to stay is climate change and our changing environment. Given that this is the month that homes World Environment Day, we have a smattering of writings that revolve around nature and also the human spirit that defies age.
We have featured a writer who revels in nature and is an ageless voice that bridges multiple cultures, Ruskin Bond. As he turned ninety-two last month, he published multiple new books. We have an excerpt from one of them, Scenes from the Magic Mountain: Five Seasons in the Mussoorie Hills and Beyond, a brilliant collection of snapshots of his interactions with nature over time — be it frogs, snakes or just trees. Some of the vignettes are humorous and some, as all classics are, thought provoking. Bond puts into words how he chose to work in Landour (a small town in Himalayas) and continued to write from there for sixty years. He talks of the spell the mountains cast on him, “I like to think that I have become a part of this Magic Mountain; that by living here for so long, I can claim a relationship with the trees, wild flowers, even the rocks that are an integral part of this landscape.” The other book excerpt is a contrast to Bond’s, a non-fiction called Burnout Highway by Anmol Diddan. It explores the collective suffering of stress at work where achievements distance humans from nature and a fulfilling life and urges readers to be open to changes.
In keeping with the theme of environment, Bhaskar Parichha has reviewed Stephen Alter’s The Fragrance of Rain: A Brief History of the Monsoon. He tells us: “The Fragrance of Rain is much more than a history of weather. It is a meditation on nature, culture, memory, and belonging… Like the season it celebrates, the book is refreshing, nourishing, and lingering in its impact…” While Rakhi Dalal expresses her delight with Shyam Manohar’s The Cold War of Sadanand Borse, a novella translated from Marathi by Jerry Pinto, Meenakshi Malhotra revels in Giti Chandra’s debut book of poems, Setting Traps for Light.
In translations, Professor Fakrul Alam has captured the flavours of Nazrul’s Bengali lyrics, which also echo of the rainy season or monsoons. Isa Kamari brings to us more of his Malay poems in English and Ihlwha Choi shares a rendering of his Korean poem, ‘Dragonfly 2’, into English. One of Tagore’s poems from Balaka (Flight of the Cranes, 1916) has found its way into this issue after being translated. We also have a touching Balochi story around social gaps from the late Abdul Qayum Sarbazi, brought to us in English by Fazal Baloch.
Hughes has continued sharing his short fables, which are absurd but also, comical! A sensitive story about the natural world mingled with Maori concepts by Keiran Martin seems so much in sync with the oceans while Jeena R Papaadi has woven a strange narrative located in a land that only one man could visit. Plamen Vasilev shares a human-interest story set in Europe and Rabiya Rehman takes us to Lahore in quest of a missing destination! Naramsetti Umamaheswararao’s narrative takes us back to a village that opted for trees, thus enriching the environmental lore in this issue.
We have a real life heart rending story from a young girl in our Pandies Corner, written and related by Deeksha Vats, based on the story told by a victim of familial violations and violence.
Our non-fiction section homes Larry Su’s essay on how his life took him from a rural mud cave in Shaanxi province to the glamour of Chicago. Reflecting on the changes he has experienced on his rare visits to his original homeland, Su muses on the cultural and socio-economic gaps he has observed between the two places. Charudutta Panigrahi – as if in direct opposition — shares similarities between two diverse geographies.
Suzanne Kamata explores a custom which may not be that eco-friendly in her column from Japan. Jun A. Alindogan brings home the impact of climate disasters while dwelling on blessings with his narrative about a narrow escape from the Typhoon Ondoy (2009). While Meredith Stephen writes of sailing to Timor Sea with photographs by Alan Noble, Farouk Gulsara takes us on a cycling adventure around the mountains of Titiwangsa. In another musing, he also explores the idea of good and evil in a sardonic tone while Sai Abhinay Penna dwells on the grandeur and vastness of the universe over his morning jog. Gowher Bhat writes of a man for whom age seems to be just a number as he publishes his debut book at 93! One wonders at the frequency of such occurrences — we have writings about two authors above ninety in the June issue. In contrast, Devraj Singh Kalsi brings in mortal fears while writing of visiting doctors with a soupçon of humour – some of it directed at himself.
Perhaps, laughter is really the best medicine to keep well! Ruskin Bond makes us laugh and writes of nature in a way that touches hearts and makes us forget the contrasting glitzy world, where we suffer stress and burnout. Our environment makes a difference, doesn’t it?
With that we wrap up our June issue. Huge thanks to our fabulous team, especially Sohana Manzoor for her wonderful artwork. To all our contributors, heartfelt thanks — we are because you are. And gratitude to our readers who make it worth our while to write and publish here.
We will next meet you during the monsoon months of South Asia though, near the equator, it rains almost every day and, in the Southern Hemisphere, it will be peak winter!
Because a strict bureaucratic state wanted to know how many mythological creatures still existed, wistful and wise, on a certain island in the sea in a state of nature raw, they sent an inspector named Hector to find out for sure.
He bypassed temples, skipped the shrines, rode the northern railway lines, determined to dispatch his duty upon the Isle of Tutti Frutti. He crossed the strait, hummed a tune, walked into the afternoon.
Past empty huts and dusty trees, defying heat with tropic breeze, and near a mysterious ruined fort, just tumbled stones, he sat to rest, as evening slipped into the west.
Then in the dark, a thrumming sound! One hundred hooves upon the ground or so he counted with his ear until the silver moon shone clear and he was able to see with startled eyes a truly Ancient Greek surprise.
Standing on the long-parched land were creatures wondrous and grand, a herd of centaurs, noble beasts, with coconut shells in every hand!
Clip-clop! clip-clop! clip-clop! Those hard halves were bashed as if hooves at high speed dashed over the packed sand of the shore.
One declared, “Don’t be scared, our intentions are mild enough. If centaur statistics start to drop, your government will never stop harassing the imaginary past and stripping the myths away.”
Hector listened with attention as the centaur eased the tension with kind and musical words, the sweetest he had ever heard:
“The paperwork demands a throng of healthy centaurs to make it wrong for developers to invade our island and spoil the pristine beauty of the fabled Tutti Frutti, and so we double what is real with melodramatic, sonic zeal. Fifty centaurs with coconut shells sound one hundred strong.”
Hector smiled to hear the plot, a simple multiplication of trots. “But why reveal to me the joke?” he asked, because he couldn’t see his value to the centaur folk.
The centaur smiled, calm and tame: “Because you are here. Write a report that will help us to defend our home, a paper in which the truth can hide. For unless you fiddle the figures the bureaucrats will push us aside.”
The herd dispersed into the night, a magnificent but deceptive sight, and hurrying back to his home, Hector planned to construct a spell of deception for this noble cause, forever charmed by moonlit swells, and centaurs playing coconut shells.
From Public Domain
Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
A curious duck disguised itself as a human and went off to the big city to see what life was like there. He nodded politely at everyone he passed in the street and said, “Good morning.” And the people always responded to him as if he was a real human being.
The duck knew that his disguise was effective, and he felt pleased with himself. In the afternoon he went to the park to feed the ducks, which was very ironic and thus amusing. Then in the early evening he visited a pub and drank several pints of strong beer.
“Pretending to be human is easy. No one suspects the truth!” he said to himself in glee as he waddled out of the pub. Next he went to the nearest fashionable theatre, bought a ticket and saw a play. The play was about a goat that was stuck at the top of a cliff.
The actor who played the goat was a sheep and wasn’t much good, so the duck left the theatre early and strolled casually down the alleyways. In a shadowy doorway directly ahead was a woman wearing a very short skirt. “What can I do for you, ducky?” she lisped at him.
The duck was so shocked he quacked.
It was now too late to keep up the pretence. So he turned and waddled away as fast as he could. “Of all of them in this vast metropolis,” he told himself, “only she is smart. But why?”
THE BOMB SCARE
A man wanted to go to his favourite coffee shop during his lunch hour but the police had sealed off the street.
“What’s going on?” he asked a nearby officer.
“There’s been a bomb scare!” came the reply.
The man tried to peer through the cordon to see for himself. “But how did that happen?” he asked nervously, because he realised that the bomb must be right outside his coffee shop.
The policeman answered, “The bomb was sauntering along innocently enough when suddenly a ghost jumped out from nowhere and frightened it. The poor thing’s a nervous wreck.”
The man stood on tiptoes and now he could see the bomb shaking and sobbing in the street. A man in a padded camouflage jacket was patting it gently and offering it a cup of sweet tea.
“Luckily the bomb squad got here quickly,” the policeman said, “and I am confident they’ll soon calm it down.”
The man snorted in anger. “What’s the world coming to? Those ghosts ought to be ashamed of themselves, scaring a harmless bomb like that for no reason. They should be locked up!”
“We tried that a few times, but they just float out through the walls,” said the policeman.
THE FRUITY ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGE
A polecat decided to throw a party for all his friends. On the morning of the occasion, he went into the forest and gathered as many kinds of fruit as he could, including apples, pears, plums, peaches, kumquats, bananas and pineapples. Then he chopped them up, threw them into an enormous bowl and poured in bottles of rum and brandy.
When the first guests arrived, he ladled some of this brew into glasses for them. It was powerful stuff and they were soon rather tipsy. More and more guests arrived and everyone had a really enjoyable time. There was music and laughter and dancing, and even, for those who like that kind of thing, plenty of howling at the full moon.
But things got out of hand when one of the drunken squirrels snatched a lighted candelabrum and ran with it up a tree. The wax dripped down on the heads of some of the other animals. “Stop that!” cried the polecat who was the host, but the squirrel ignored him.
“Let me try!” suggested a bear, and he roared up at the squirrel: “What are you doing? You’ll set the tree on fire!”
But the squirrel gave an incomprehensible reply.
This made the bear angry. “Come down here at once or I’ll punch your lights out!” he bellowed in a fierce voice.
The squirrel blew a slobbery kiss and giggled.
“I warned you!” cried the bear.
“Are you really going to punch his lights out?” gasped a worried raven who was a close friend of the squirrel.
“Too right I am! Watch this!” growled the bear as he stormed over to the table where the bowl was located.
With the polecat’s ladle he filled his glass to the brim with the fruity alcoholic beverage and then he came back and flicked his paw so that the contents were flung upwards into the tree.
The liquid splashed over the squirrel and the candelabrum but instead of extinguishing the flames it made them flare up as the rum and brandy in the mixture ignited.
The raven said: “Oh no! You punched his lights up by mistake!”
THE MAGICAL EYE
There was a magical eye that didn’t belong to any head. It just rolled over the ground and played tricks. “I bet I’m more magical than you,” it said to a genie it met on a beach one morning.
The tide had washed the bottle containing the genie onto the sands and left it there. The genie was willing to accept the eye’s challenge. “I am an outstanding genie and I’m able to transform myself into any object just by thinking about it. Can you do that too?”
“Yes, I can,” said the eye. “Watch this!” And it changed itself into one of those mechanical devices that lift heavy weights into the air. The genie scowled and copied him. “That’s very simple!” he chortled. So now there were two of those devices on the beach.
“Well then,” said the eye. “Try this for size!” And it turned into one of those tools with teeth that are used to cut through wood. The genie wasn’t impressed and he too became an identical copy of the same tool. “Child’s play!” he rasped in considerable derision.
“How about this?” cried the eye. And it transformed itself into a horse chestnut minus the spiky casing, but not an ordinary chestnut of that type. No, it had a hole drilled through it and it dangled from a string. The genie had to admit defeat. “I can’t match that.”
The magical eye was triumphant. “Then I am the best, I am the king, I am the Caesar of shapeshifters, yes I am!”
The genie was confused. “Why the Caesar?” he asked.
The answer was as follows:
“Eye crane, eye saw, eye conker!”
The genie glared at him
The magical eye said, “I’ll get my quote and leave…”
AN ANGRY CONDIMENT
A bell pepper went on holiday with a pinch of salt. After they settled into the hotel, they began unpacking. “I don’t believe this!” cried the pinch of salt. “You forgot the toothpaste!”
“I didn’t forget. I deliberately neglected to bring it.”
“But why? Are you an idiot?”
The bell pepper said, “We don’t have any teeth, so what’s the point of taking along tubes of toothpaste?”
The pinch of salt wasn’t pacified and roared: “When normal couples go on vacation they always pack hygiene items in their luggage! You bulbous lout!”
“But we’re not a couple, just good friends.”
“So you don’t fancy me?”
The bell pepper said, “Not really, no.”
There was a tense pause.
Then the pinch of salt flung itself in the bell pepper’s face. It was very lucky the pepper didn’t have eyes, otherwise they would have stung quite a bit and the salt would have dissolved in the resulting tears. Nonetheless, the bell pepper screamed loudly.
And the manager of the hotel burst into the room.
“What’s going on here then?”
He studied the situation and came to a sudden decision. Pointing at the open door he remarked coldly, “Assault and pepper, eh? Well, the holiday seasoning is over now, so get out!”
THE SHORT SENTENCE
A short sentence said, “Wait!”
“What for?” wondered a pendulum clock.
“For just a minute!”
“Which minute? I have lots!”
“Any you can spare,” said the short sentence.
“Well, I suppose you can have this one, but it’s second hand,” offered the pendulum clock as it ticked.
“I thought the second hand was the minute hand?”
“The little hand is the minute hand,” explained the clock. “The second hand is the third hand. Get it?”
“Not really, but thanks,” said the short sentence.
The pendulum clock asked meekly, “Are you entirely certain you’re a short sentence? It’s just that sometimes I can’t see your full stop. I know I’m a bit shortsighted and yet—”
“I must confess that I am mildly insulted by your remark, which tends to suggest that I have been deceiving you and the readers of this fable for reasons that probably are dubious and possibly felonious, and I wish most strongly to stress that I am now, always have been, and certainly intend to remain, to the utmost of my ability, for the entire duration of my lifespan, however long that may be, a very short sentence, and I will regard anyone who insinuates that the contrary is true with enormous rancour and I may even resort to legal proceedings to restore my tarnished reputation, so let this be a warning,” said the short sentence.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” sincerely apologised the pendulum clock.
BRASSED OFF
“I’m really rather good at my job,” said a wolf, but a wise sage overheard him and wagged a finger. “Never blow your own trumpet,” he quoted. He then went back to meditating and levitating.
The wolf frowned and thought deeply about this advice. “He’s right. I won’t forget his words in a hurry!”
Talking about a hurry, the wolf was late for work.
He turned up at the concert hall with just a few minutes to spare. Then he took his position on the stage. The conductor, who was a pine marten, used his tail as a baton to keep time.
The music burst from the orchestra like an exploding simile!
It was Honey Empathy’s Sympathy in Bee.
Are you familiar with that piece?
I’m not either. Anyway… Now was the exact moment when the brass section had to join in the music with their own instruments. But the wolf remembered what the sage had told him and he leaned quickly across to his nearest neighbour, who happened to be a rabbit. The rabbit saw what the wolf intended and tried to stop him.
“What are you doing? Get your paws off that!”
“Sorry,” said the wolf, “but I’ve been told by a reliable source that to blow my own trumpet is wrong. So I intend to blow yours instead. If you like, you can play mine on my behalf.”
“You buffoon!” wailed the rabbit. “I don’t play the trumpet. I play the trombone. They sound utterly different!”
SLEEPY UPRISING
The squirrel roared, “When are the people of Hiber going to wake up and become a nation?” His tone was passionate and his audience agreed that it was a dramatic speech. They applauded with their paws and hooves or whistled with their beaks. The squirrel acknowledged the reaction with a wave and dismounted the platform.
But an alligator approached him and said shyly, “I like the sentiments you expressed, but there’s a flaw in your reasoning. You want the people of the province of Hiber to wake up?”
“Yes, yes, it’s about time,” replied the squirrel.
“Why is that?” asked the alligator.
“Because they’ve been oppressed for generations and only when they win independence for themselves will they be free to embrace the liberty that is the birthright of all beings.”
The alligator cleared its throat and remarked, “If the people of Hiber wake up and become a nation, they will automatically be in Hiber Nation and therefore unable to wake up…”
The squirrel frowned. “I hadn’t thought of that!”
CLOUD DISCO
A buttercup said to a fox, “Isn’t it weird how the clouds seem to gather on the horizon at sunset? The sky above us is mostly clear but in the far west there are many clouds packed tight.”
“The twilight sky is a disco, that’s why,” replied the fox.
“What do you mean?” asked the buttercup.
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” said the fox. “Clouds often like to go dancing in the summer evenings. The dome of the sky is the dancefloor but only a few clouds are confident enough to go to the middle and strut their stuff. The others tend to linger on the edges.”
“I wonder what music they dance to? Do you suppose it might be the music of the spheres?” cried the buttercup.
“That’s classical music. I already told you that the sky at this time of day is a disco. It must be disco music.”
“Name me some examples,” pleaded the buttercup.
“I can’t,” admitted the fox sadly. “I can’t think of any puns involving clouds and disco music, sorry. Maybe the reader can do that for you. I’m off to my own dance class now. Bye!”
“Really? Are you learning disco dancing too?”
“Nope, the foxtrot,” said the fox.
From Public Domain
Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
In conversation with Teresa Rehmanwith focus on her non-fiction, Bulletproof: A Journalist’s Notebook on Reporting Conflict and a brief introduction to her book. Click here to read.
Translations
Robihara(Sunless)by Kazi Nazrul Islam has been translated by Professor Fakrul Alam from Bengali. Clickhere to read.
Four of his ownMalay poems have been translated by Isa Kamari. Click here to read.
In a world torn by conflict, why would one mention hope or compassion? In an age of dystopian scenarios, why would we dream of utopias?
Perhaps it’s wishful musings, but at some level what people need to survive is probably something to look forward to — a speck of light — a wishful idea called hope. Hope builds resilience. Utopias are built on hope, on love and compassion. Dystopias are built on desperation and despair. They take fear or horror to the extreme and play on people’s vulnerabilities. They might induce a cathartic effect and one might say— we are better off as we are in the present or we must act so that this never happens. Is that something we can really say in a world where wars are disrupting peace and lives of all humanity, where violence against civilians is becoming an accepted norm, where shortages could also be a reality for most of us? Utopias, on the other hand, build on the element of an ideal, a dream towards which we can move on the bleakest day of our existence. They could be used to stir hope and envision a reality devoid of violence. And perhaps, some of it would congeal into a real-world scenario with smaller doses of the bad and ugly. In a conflict-ridden world, which almost feels like a reenactment of George Orwell’s 1984 (only about four and a half decades after his predicted date) what would touch your heart, give you a sense of relief— hope for a better future or dwelling on doomsday predictions? What would you want for your progeny?
Just before the pandemic changed our lives, a book was published where while questing for their own utopia, a group of young people became part of a dystopian reality. They were known as the ULFA rebels[1] and their story was told in Bulletproof:A Journalist’s Notebook on Reporting Conflict by Teresa Rehman. The current relevance of this book cannot be undermined because not only does it humanise the insurgents perspective, but it also shows how a centrist set up can neglect the needs of particular fringe communities. In addition, Rehman’s heartrending stories of poachers and people who live unaccepted in the margins only strengthen the need for an unboxed world where tolerance and compassion would transcend these artificially created fences that divide and lead to violence. This issue features Rehman’s book and an online discussion with her which stretches beyond the confines of pages.
We have more poetry in our translations, some sombre and some funny. A Bengali poem written as a tribute by Nazrul on the death of his older friend, Rabindranath Tagore, has been rendered into English by Professor Fakrul Alam. To add a lighter touch, we have translated a fun-filled poem by Tagore. Isa Kamari continues to translate his own Malay poems to bring in flavours of the culture. This time his poems seem to urge a need to transcend age-old stratifications. We also have a Balochi human-interest story by Younus Hussain brought to us in English by Fazal Baloch.
Hughes’ column too has fiction. His humorous and absurdist fables continue to urge re-evaluation of the world as well as genres. We also have a poignant narrative built around a Vietnamese migrant family by Mario Fenech. Sayan Sarkar shares a tale upending norms set in Kolkata while Naramsetti Umamaheswararao narrates a story about a young boy overcoming his fears. Abhik Ganguly gives us a strange fiction set in the future in a different galaxy, where Earth is seen as the original planet of human evolution.
C Christine Fair, who is an established translator, has surprised us — like Lyons — this time with a personal memoir which dwells on the deeply annihilating impact of norms that define gender roles. Upending the idea of an immutable ruler who can overpower us, is an essay by Ravi Varmman K Kanniappan with its roots in the ruins Rameses II — known as Ozymandias too — and Shelley’s poem of the same name.
We have had an overflow of writing about the unusual and redefining norms in our non-fiction section. Odbayar Dorj weaves an unusual narrative and shares photographs from a village of scarecrows in Japan that has a population of 27 humans and 370 scarecrows. She tells us: “In a place where people and scarecrows live side by side, I began to understand something simple but profound: sometimes, when human presence fades, we find our own ways to fill the silence with memories, imagination, and love.” Humanity never ceases to hope. Filling in silences are narratives by Arathi Devandran and Mubida Rohman on how they deal with the quietness left by departed loved ones.
We have more from Meredith Stephens with photographs by Alan Noble on their trip to Vietnam — as they travel to places that are less touristy while Gowher Bhat explores the Sunday Book Bazaar at Old Delhi. Farouk Gulsara travels back to Penang where he spent his childhood and reflects on changes. Are they always for the best?
Suzanne Kamata takes up changes with a soupçon of humour as she writes of how the AI finally conceded to her husband, “Your wife is not wrong…” while Jun A. Alindogan writes of how social media can create mayhem if misused to spread fake news. Devraj Singh Kalsi resorts to sardonic humour of a darker hue as he explores ways to make a living.
Gulsara has also explored Sam Dalrymple’s Shattered Lands: Five Partitions and the Making of Modern Asiawhich starts with the extent of the British Empire with its western-most point at Aden and stretching in the east to Burma. There was a period from 1839 to 1867, when it stretched from Aden to Singapore[2], which was a part of Malaya, leaving out Siam or Thailand which never succumbed to colonial rule. The book starts at a later date — 1928 — and talks of the piecing of the British Empire, with questionable stances taken by historically heroic figures, thus urging a critical relook at our own past — just over the last hundred years.
Our reviews include Rakhi Dalal’s take on Maithreyi Karnoor’s rather unusual stories fromGooday Nagar.Bhaskar Parichhahas wandered back to non-fiction with the late Kaukub Talat Quder Sajjad Ali Meerza’s Wajid Ali Shah: A Cultural and Literary Legacy, translated from Urdu by Talat Fatima, a history that makes us reassess views on the last of the Awadhi nawabs. Somdatta Mandal has also shares a discussion on Sushila Takbhaure’s My Shackled Life, translated from Hindi by Deeba Zafir and Preeti Dewan, a narrative that showcases the resilience of the author.
This issue could not have been put together without all our wonderful contributors. Heartfelt thanks for sharing your gems with us. Huge thanks to the Borderless team too who continue to support bringing in variety, colour and reinforcing our values. Much thanks to Sohana Manzoor for the fabulous cover art and to all those who share vibrant visuals with their writing. Many thanks to our readers too who make our efforts worthwhile. Do write in with your comments.
Look forward to greeting you all again next month!
The bluebells are ringing happy clappers to glue the day together and in the stinging weather permit me to mention that my fancy pants and tethered balloons allow me to prance in the style of a loon without attracting attention.
I am a clown among the flowers. Make room! Make room! So I can bloom.
The tension is palpable but my nose is long and the stinging will sing with notes all wrong but I belong among the rungs of sun ladders that adders will climb from sad climes to fine while my furlong shoes tap dance the Blues.
You are a flower among the clowns. Make time! Make time! So we can rhyme.
The circus purpose makes you rumble aloud but absurdly murky among this crowd of powerful flowers are the games of clowns so down on the ground I am fated to tumble crestfallen in pollen and fallen in vain.
IRISH GHOST
I was an Irish ghost, to be sheer, to be sheer, to be sheer.
Trapped in a haunted sock behind the chopping block, I writhed inside my fabric tomb and felt the loom of doom give room.
A snip! A rip! A sideways slip. I shook the lint from my ghastly lips. And I was free, reckless, scary.
Now hear my chant, you beer-filled host: I am the grin without the ghost. This is no time to sneer at things I’ll fill your soul with fears that bring the worst of comforts.
But first drink up all your beer while I propose a toast to myself, an Irish ghost imprisoned in a sock. My name? The words you dread the most. Mr Midnight O’Clock.
From Public Domain
Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
A genie lived happily in a green glass bottle until the bottle was accidentally smashed by a meteorite. The genie went on the rampage, getting drunk, taking drugs, starting fires in rubbish tips and stealing food from shops. “I hope you have a good excuse for your deplorable behaviour!” protested the meteorite.
The genie nodded. “Yes I do. I come from a broken home.”
THE HIGHLY QUALIFIED NOSE
An aardvark went for a job interview. “Why do you have apricot jam on your nose?” was the first question.
“It’s a long story,” replied the aardvark.
“Not as long as your nose, I bet!” chuckled the horse who was conducting the interview. Probably he thought he was the first entity to make that joke.
“Look,” said the aardvark reasonably. “I have all the qualities you require in a foreman of a spice factory. I can sniff and retrieve cardamom pods that have rolled under benches; I can sniff and retrieve chillies that have fallen behind jars; I can sniff and retrieve saffron that has—”
“Can you sniff and retrieve this?” cried the horse.
“Huh? Atchoo!!!”
The horse put away the sample of black pepper and pointed at the door with a hoof. “Sorry, I can’t offer you the job. You have a highly qualified nose but when it came to the interview stage you blew it.”
ACTING THE GOAT
A sheep decided to join the theatre. Her first role was to play a goat that got itself stuck at the top of a cliff.
The director told her that she had to convey fear, anguish and despair so convincingly that the people in the audience would believe the scripted predicament was real. But on the play’s opening night, the woolly actress forgot her lines and began laughing.
The director was outraged and rushed onto the stage in full view of the audience. “Start acting the goat!” he cried.
THE WARLORD
A warlord spent all his pocket money on tubes and jars of tomato purée. Because he was a warlord he had very big pockets made from chain mail, so that he could keep maces, knives and hand-axes in them without fear of the sharp spikes and blades making a hole in the fabric and falling out and landing on his foot and injuring it.
Because his pockets were so large, his pocket money was considerable and he was able to purchase enormous amounts of tomato purée. At home he filled ice-trays with the purée and froze them in his freezer until he had many blocks of frozen concentrated tomato pulp. With these blocks, each of which resembled a little brick, he constructed a building at the bottom of the garden. It was a small building with only one room and he used it as storage space for all his garden tools.
A distant relative came to visit him. “What are you doing?” he asked in astonishment, when he saw the tomato purée house, which was beginning to sag in the heat of the sun.
“I’m a warlord,” said the warlord, “and I read in a book of history that in order to be a genuine warlord, one must shed blood. I don’t particularly like blood, so I’m using tomato purée instead. I might shed other kinds of vegetable juices too, if I have the time.”
THE MIDAIR MEETING
Two boomerangs met in midair. They were polite to each other. “How do you do?” said one of them. “Pleased to make your acquaintance!” replied the other. Then there was a brief pause.
“Well, I must be getting back now,” said the first.
“Me too,” added the second.
“I’ve got an idea,” said the first boomerang, who was mischievous and liked to play practical jokes. “Why don’t we swap owners? They’ll never be able to tell the difference. Instead of turning around at this point, you keep going forward and I’ll do the same; and we’ll end up in the hands of new people. That might be a laugh.”
“I’ve got an even better idea,” retorted the second boomerang. “Why don’t we fall in love and get married?”
“I bet that’s what they’re hoping we’ll do! No, I prefer my own idea. I enjoy fooling humans: it’s great fun!”
And so they both continued in a straight line and were caught by hands that hadn’t thrown them. The owners of those hands looked glumly down at the lengths of curved wood and said, “Releasing them into boomerang society hasn’t worked in the way we anticipated. They didn’t meet a mate but changed identity instead. Weird!”
THE EQUATOR’S MISTAKE
The Greenwich Meridian said to the Equator, “Why have you dressed up in that ridiculous outfit? Four paws, a tail, a golden mane and long teeth! I can’t see any good reason for it.”
“I’m expressing what I really am,” came the reply.
“But you’re the Equator! That’s what you really are. I wonder who has been filling your head — not that you have one —with such rubbish? Did you read one of those books again?”
“Yes I did. It was an encyclopaedia. And it told me that the Equator is an ‘imaginary lion that runs around the world’. Now I’m off for my first run of infinity. See you on each lap!”
RHINO COP
A rhinoceros joined the police force. They told him, “First you arrest the criminals and then you charge them.”
He nodded and went off to tackle crime in the big city. He saw a man trying to steal a cabbage in a greengrocer’s and he shouted out that the fellow was under arrest.
“But I was just testing its firmness!” the man replied.
“You’re under arrest anyway,” the rhino said.
“On what charge?” demanded the man.
“On this one!” bellowed the rhino as he charged him.
The cabbage was rescued…
Later, back at the police station, the rhino said, “I had a busy first day at work. I arrested ten criminals and charged all of them, but now there’s no room left on my horn and the blood is trickling into my eyes. Will you remove them for me? Much appreciated!”
POOR VISIBILITY
A gorgon was driving her jaguar through the pouring rain. The jaguar was growling and grumbling because cats don’t like water. “Why don’t you stop at the next settlement and find shelter?” he asked. “If you keep going, you’ll be certain to crash.”
“Crash? Why should I do that?” asked the gorgon.
“Because of the poor visibility!”
“No need for you to worry about that!” answered the gorgon. “I’ve got a set of windscreen vipers on my head.”
THE NEW KNIGHT
“I’ve not seen you at Camelot before,” said Sir Galahad.
“That’s right,” answered the new knight, “I’m just doing a one-off job for King Arthur. He has started using workers who aren’t affiliated with the Round Table. I’m one of those.”
“Oh, I see,” sniffed Sir Galahad. “And you are Sir—?”
“Freelancealot,” came the reply.
ANTIMATTER PASTA
The astronomer removed his eye from the telescope. “I have got some startling news! The sun is going out!”
“Going out? Going out?” came the shocked response. “This is terrible! A catastrophe! You mean to say that…”
“Yes,” replied the astronomer grimly. “It seems that a new restaurant has opened beyond the orbit of Pluto!”
THE FLYING FISH
A shoal of flying fish was swimming through the ocean. Suddenly one of the fish nearest the front shouted, “Our way forward is blocked by a mass of ice! I never expected such a thing!”
“A mass of ice?” cried one of the more experienced members of the shoal. “Oh, I see what you mean…” His name was Lindy and he held the fish record for the longest solo flight.
“Have you seen this before?” asked the first fish.
“Yes, it’s an iceberg,” said Lindy.
“Well, let’s just fly over it! We are flying fish, after all. We can easily re-enter the ocean on the far side.”
“Be careful!” Lindy answered.
“What for? I’ll go first. It will be simple!”
“Not true,” warned Lindy. “You must glide very high when you make the attempt; and so must the fish that follow. Don’t you realise that 10% of an iceberg lies above the water…?”
From Public Domain
Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Jun A. Alindogan gives an account of how an overgrowth of water hyacinth affects aquatic life and upsets the local food chain while giving us a flavourful account of local food. Clickhereto read.
Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote, The droghte of March hath perced to the roote, And bathed every veyne…
The Canterbury Tales (1387-1400) by Chaucer, Prologue
This is the month Asia hosts sprays of new years across multiple regions. Many of these celebrate the fecundity of Earth, spring and the departure of bleak winter months. Each new year is filled with hope for the coming year. The vibrant colours of varied cultures celebrate spring in different ways, but it is a welcome for the new-born year, a jubilation, a reaffirmation of the continuity of the circle of life. Will the wars, especially the shortages caused by them and felt deeply by many of us, affect these celebrations? Had they impacted the festivals that were celebrated earlier? These are questions to which we all seek answers. We can only try to gauge the suffering caused by war on those whose homes, hopes, families and assets have been affected other than trying to cope with the senselessness of such inane attacks. But, in keeping with TS Eliot’s observations on Prufrock, most of us continue our lives unperturbed and as usual.
Some of us think and try to dissent for peace and a world without borders with words – prose or poetry. To reinforce ideas of commonalities that bind overriding divides, we are excited to announce a poetry anthology mapping varied continents with content from Borderless Journal, Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems. We are hugely grateful to Hawakal Publishers for this opportunity and to Bitan Chakraborty for the fabulous cover design. We invite you all to browse on the anthology which is available in hardcopy across continents.
Our issue this month is a bumper issue with the translation of Tagore’s Roktokorobi (Red Oleanders) by Professor Fakrul Alam. It’s the full-length play this time as earlier we had carried only an excerpt. The play is deeply relevant to our times as is Somdatta Mandal’s English rendition of his story, ‘Daliya’, set in Arakan. We also have also translated Tagore’s response to the idea of mortal fame and deification in poetry. Kallol Lahiri’s poignant Bengali story about the resilience of an ageing actress has been brought to us in English by V Ramaswamy. Isa Kamari brings us translations of his Malay poems exploring spirituality through nature.
But what really grips are the fables that Hughes will be sharing with us over four months. He calls them Rhysop Fables, after the ancient ones from Aesop’s with the ancient author himself being mentioned in one of the short absurdist narratives this time. In fiction, our regular fable writer, Naramsetti Umamaheswararao explores a modern-day dilemma, that of social media intruding into the development of children. Jonathon B Ferrini glances at resilience and mental disability while, Sangeetha G looks into societal attitudes that still plague her part of the world. Oindrila Ghosal gives a story set in Kashmir.
From Kashmir, Gower Bhat shares a heartfelt musing on being a first time father. Mohul Bhowmick writes of Eid in Hydearbad (Hari Raya in Southeast Asia) — echoing themes from Kamari’s poems — and Anupriya Pandey ponders over the quiet acceptance of mundane life that emphasises social inequities. Jun A. Alindogan brings home issues from Phillipines. While we have stories about Vietnam from Meredith Stephens, Suzanne Kamata muses about Phnom Penh, mesmerised by Cambodian dancers.
Farouk Gulsara writes of his cycling trip from Jaipur to Udaipur bringing to life dichotomies of values and showing that age can be just a number. Chetan Poduri reinforces gaps created by technology as does Charudutta Panigrah, a theme that reverberates from poetry to fiction to non-fiction and much of it with a light touch. Devraj Singh Kalsi sprinkles humour with his strange tale about hiring a bodyguard.
Keith Lyons has brought in Keith Westwaters, a soldier-turned-poet who seems to find his muse mainly in New Zealand. We have also featured an author who overrides borders of continents, Marzia Pasini. Her book, Leonie’s Leap, has a protagonist of mixed origin and her characters are drawn out of Russia, India, Bulgaria and many other places.
This rounds up our April issue. Do visit our content’s page and explore the journal further.
Huge thanks to the wonderful team, especially Sohana Manzoor for her art. They help bring together the colours of the world to our pages. Huge thanks to contributors who make each issue evolve a personality of its own. And heartfelt thanks to readers who make it worth our while to write.
