I was making toast in the appropriate season for a wholesome host of reasons in a trundling caravan on its way to Amsterdam.
Suddenly I encountered to my distress an obstacle hindering further progress: a rather tasteless traffic jam.
Undeterred I proceeded to spread that jam on my toast until the coast was clear. Hadn’t I been warned about the dangers of queued strangers by my mother?
In my haste I washed it down with strong Dutch beer and now I fear I have acquired a taste for vehicles stuck behind each other.
That’s right. Every night before bed I eat traffic jam instead of drinking cocoa.
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
“Everyone should believe in ghosts at Christmas. It’s a tradition. Just think of A Christmas Carol, for instance.”
“I don’t care. I still don’t believe in them.”
“So you don’t believe in yourself?”
“Don’t be silly,” said the phantom, “a spook isn’t the same thing as a ghost. Not the same thing at all…”
“I was a ghost once,” sighed the vampire.
“What happened?” cried the ghoul.
“Well, it was like this…” began the vampire, and he proceeded to tell a garbled account of how he was once a poor traveller in an earlier century who was attacked by bandits in the forest, then his spirit rose out of his body and proceeded to haunt the bandit chieftain, making the rogue’s life a misery by possessing him and forcing him to act against his will.
The skeleton rapidly tapped an impatient foot.
“Shh!” hissed the ghoul, “you sound like a xylophone, and I am trying to listen to the vampire’s narrative.”
“Yes, but he’s drawing it out a bit, isn’t he?”
“That’s his privilege, of course.”
“How come he gets your respect and I don’t?”
“He’s a Count, but what are you? Without a shred of flesh on you, I’d say you were merely a subtraction.”
“That’s a really bad play on words,” sniffed the skeleton.
“So what? It’s a good insult…”
“Stop bickering!” growled the werewolf.
The vampire was oblivious to all this fuss. He was explaining how his ghost possessed the bandit chieftain by entering into his brain through his nose, then he would force the miscreant to dance and sing in a very silly manner and do all sorts of humiliating things. The other bandits soon abandoned their leader in dismay and went elsewhere.
“Unfortunately,” continued the vampire, his fangs gleaming in the pale moonlight, “I got trapped inside his brain. I lost my way among the tangle of synapses and couldn’t get back out!”
“That sounds scary!” remarked the phantom.
The vampire nodded and his cape swished in the night breeze. “It was absolutely terrifying, I can assure you. I rushed hither and thither, trying to escape my prison, but I was stuck for good. So, I decided to accept my fate and things got easier. I settled in and was gradually absorbed by the host body, until I became the bandit. Once this happened, I ventured forth and returned to my old ways, robbing travellers in the forest. I was satisfied. But one dark night I chanced on the wrong victim.”
“Who was it?” asked the spook.
“A werewolf! And he attacked and bit me!”
The werewolf looked sheepish. “Don’t swivel your heads at me, I had nothing to do with it, honestly.”
“No, it wasn’t you,” said the vampire.
“Maybe one of my cousins?”
“I have no idea who it was, but I only just managed to escape his teeth and claws before he devoured me, yet I was now infected, and so I turned into a werewolf myself every full moon. I guess it was fun, in a way, but finally I was tracked down by a monster hunter.”
“Did he shoot you with a silver bullet?”
The vampire nodded. “Yes, he did. But when a werewolf dies it turns into a vampire, a fact that humans keep forgetting, and I soon got revenge on him! And that’s who you see before you now: a vampire who was once a werewolf who was once a bandit chief who was once a ghost who was once a poor traveller…”
There was a long pause. The spook cleared his throat.
“So, you believe in ghosts then?”
The vampire clucked his tongue. “Of course!”
“I still don’t,” said the spook.
“You don’t believe what happens to be true?”
“No, I don’t. Why should I?”
The spook and vampire glared at each other. Before they started to bicker seriously, the phantom laughed to lighten the mood and said, “I knew a man who was the opposite of that.”
“The opposite of what?” prompted the ghoul.
The phantom adjusted his ectoplasm.
“Opposite in attitude, I mean. He had no evidence about the existence of ghosts, but he was a firm believer in them. His friends were sceptics and mocked him and so he needed to obtain proof to silence them. But in fact, he required that proof for himself even more. His name was Mr Gaston Gullible, and he did everything possible to meet a ghost. He slept in old churchyards, went for midnight walks in lonely forests, used Ouija boards in the hope of contacting the departed.”
“All without success?” asked the werewolf.
The phantom rolled his insubstantial eyes in his wispy sockets, nodded and sighed. “Nothing ever worked.”
“That’s a shame,” remarked the skeleton.
“One night, it was Christmas Eve in fact, he was sleeping in his bed when the curtains began swishing. The window wasn’t open, there was no breath of wind in his room. The rustling woke him and he sat up and blinked in the gloom and when his eyes had adjusted he saw that the curtains had bunched themselves into the shape of a person, the shape of a woman, and she raised a fabric arm and pointed directly at him.”
“What did he do?” cried the werewolf.
“He died of fright and slumped back onto the bed. Then the ghostly woman approached him and said, ‘I have waited centuries to meet the right man. You will be my husband in the next world,’ and his ghost rose from his body. She was ready to embrace him, but he shook his head and brushed past her. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘but I have stopped believing in ghosts. I believed in them all my life without evidence and I’ve finally come to the conclusion that I was wasting my time. I am now a sceptic, and I don’t believe in you,’ and he passed through the wall and was never seen again.”
“That story had a twist ending,” said the ghoul.
“Yes, it did,” agreed the phantom.
The spook said, “I’ve got a twist ending too.”
“I don’t understand—”
“Would you all like to see it?”
The vampire, werewolf, ghoul, phantom and skeleton exchanged glances. Then they said together, “Why not? Go ahead.”
The spook took a deep breath, extended his thin multi-jointed arms and started spinning. He spun faster and faster, became a blur, a spiral of force, a miniature tornado. Then he whirled away through the trees, laughing and crackling with blue thunderbolts.
“Merry Christmas!” he cried as he vanished.
The others shook their heads. The skeleton shook his head so vigorously that it fell off and he had to bend down to pick it up.
“I didn’t anticipate that,” admitted the phantom.
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
Festivals are affirmations of joy and love that bind humanity with their sense of hope even in a world torn by violence and climate change. As the end of the year approaches, we invite you to savour flavours of festivals past and, a few, yet to come, before the cycle starts again in the new year. The colours of celebrations are vibrant and varied as shades of nature or the skies.
We have new years spread out over the year, starting with January, moving on to the Chinese New Year around February, the Bengali new year in April to festivals of environment, light, darkness as in Wiccan beliefs, Tagore’s birth, more conventional ones like Deepavali, Eid, Durga Puja and Christmas. People celebrate in different ways and for different reasons. What we have also gathered is not only the joie de vivre but also the sadness people feel when celebrations are muted whether due to the pandemic, wars or for social reasons. In some cases, we indulge in excesses with funny results! And there are of course festivals of humanity … as celebrated by the bauls — the singing mendicants of Bengal — who only recognise the religion of love, compassion and kindness.
Ramakanta Rath’sSri Radha celebrating the love of Radha and Krishna have been translated from Odiya by the late poet himself, have been excerpted from his full length translation. Click here to read.
Bijoya Doushumi, a poem on the last day of Durga Puja, by the famous poet, Michael Madhusudan Dutt, has been translated from Bengali by Ratnottama Sengupta. Click here to read.
A Clean Start: Suzanne Kamata tells us how the Japanese usher in a new year. Click here to read.
Shanghai in Jakarta: Eshana Sarah Singh takes us to Chinese New Year celebrations in Djakarta. Click here to read.
Cherry Blossom Forecast: Suzanne Kamata brings the Japanese ritual of cherry blossom viewing to our pages with her camera and words. Clickhere to read.
Pohela Boisakh: A Cultural Fiesta: Sohana Manzoor shares the Bengali New Year celebrations in Bangladesh with interesting history and traditions that mingle beyond the borders. Clickhere to read.
The New Year’s Boon: Devraj Singh gives a glimpse into the projection of a new normal created by God. Click here to read.
A Musical Soiree: Snigdha Agrawal recalls how their family celebrated Tagore’s birth anniversary. Click here to read.
An Alien on the Altar! Snigdha Agrawal writes of how a dog and lizard add zest to Janmashtami (Krishna’s birthday) festivities with a dollop of humour. Click here to read
Memories of Durga Puja : Fakrul Alam recalls the festivities of Durga Puja in Dhaka during his childhood. Click hereto read.
KL Twin Towers near Kolkata?: Devraj Singh Kalsi visits the colours of a marquee hosting the Durga Puja season with its spirit of inclusivity. Click here to read.
Hold the roast turkey please Santa: Celebrating the festive season off-season with Keith Lyons from New Zealand, where summer solstice and Christmas fall around the same time. Click here to read.
Odbayar Dorj writes of celebrating the start of the new school year in Mongolia and of their festivals around teaching and learning. Click here to read.
Naramsetti Umamaheswararao gives a story set in a village in Andhra Pradesh. Clickhere to read.
Feature
A conversation withAmina Rahman, owner of Bookworm Bookshop, Dhaka, about her journey from the corporate world to the making of her bookstore with a focus on community building. Clickhereto read.
The idea of spring heralds hope even when it’s deep winter. The colours of spring bring variety along with an assurance of contentment and peace. While wars and climate disasters rage around the world, peace can be found in places like the cloistered walls of Sistine Chapel where conflicts exist only in art. Sometimes, we get a glimpse of peace within ourselves as we gaze at the snowy splendour of Himalayas and sometimes, in smaller things… like a vernal flower or the smile of a young child. Inner peace can at times lead to great art forms as can conflicts where people react with the power of words or visual art. But perhaps, what is most important is the moment of quietness that helps us get in touch with that inner voice giving out words that can change lives. Can written words inspire change?
Our featured bookstore’s owner from Bangladesh, Amina Rahman, thinks it can. Rahman of Bookworm, has a unique perspective for she claims, “A lot of people mistake success with earning huge profits… I get fulfilment out of other things –- community health and happiness and… just interaction.” She provides books from across the world and more while trying to create an oasis of quietude in the busy city of Dhaka. It was wonderful listening to her views — they sounded almost utopian… and perhaps, therefore, so much more in synch with the ideas we host in these pages.
Our content this month are like the colours of the rainbow — varied and from many countries. They ring out in different colours and tones, capturing the multiplicity of human existence. The translations start with Professor Fakrul Alam’s transcreation of Nazrul’s Bengali lyrics in quest of the intangible. Isa Kamari translates four of his own Malay poems on spiritual quest, while from Balochi, Fazal Baloch bring us Munir Momin’s esoteric verses in English. Snehprava Das’s translation of Rohini K.Mukherjee poetry from Odia and S.Ramakrishnan’s story translated from Tamil by B.Chandramouli also have the same transcendental notes. Tagore’s playful poem on winter (Sheeth) mingles a bit for spring, the season welcomed by all creatures great and small.
We have good news to share —Borderless Journal has had the privilege of being listed on Duotrope – which means more readers and writers for us. We are hugely grateful to all our readers and contributors without who we would not have a journal. Thanks to our wonderful team, especially Sohana Manzoor for her fabulous artwork.
Hope you have a wonderful month as we move towards the end of this year.
Ogden Nash is the finest. The snobs who dismiss his work are knobs and jerks whose heads should be examined and given an F minus. Of his talent they have not a tenth. I mean, flipping heck! Lacking depth is his strength.
And now for some HAIRY QUESTIONS… Werewolf? Whywolf? Howwolf? Whenwolf? Whatwolf? Whowolf?
Questions like those never can be answered because the facts are tactless and the fangs will leave you gutless on nights of a full moon. The lycanthropic topic is one best avoided and thus I will always avoid it.
I made myself a sandwich. I made it for my health. I am a self-made man despite my lack of wealth.
I made myself a promise I would be a bitter gourd cut into fancy segments by an even fancier sword.
Unlike okra I’m not slimy. If you ever dare to try me I’m a vegetable Cockney, I must say, “gourd blimey.”
Is that all? No, it certainly isn’t.
Lady Rickshaw claims we are all ghost ships on the streets of cities, drifting here and there.
That’s modern civilisation for you: please join the queue for the time machine.
But in more barbaric times in chillier climes…
Our cavemen noses glow in the cold. They never grow when we are old but snowmen’s noses linger for longer and their nostrils resemble craters.
The comet made from ice, interstellar, vast, oblivious, very fast, will strike that fellah dead when it hits his head.
And now let’s take a trip to ANCIENT GREECE
A gorgon’s internal organs must be clever forgeries. She turns heroes to stone, in pairs or if they’re alone, and when destiny calls and Greece finally falls those statues will be taken to Rome, their new home.
But the gorgon’s heart will never beat a rhythm you can dance to. It won’t thump like a man-bull’s hoof-shaped shoes, that’s true. No swirling sonic brews amuse our motley crews.
I’ve had better days lost in this maze: one time I almost found my way out, said the Minotaur…
Fenugreek Mythology featuring Hercules and Coriander leaves, Turmeric and Ulysses, Centaurs and Bottle Gourds on a bed of saffron rice is nicer to devour than plain old Greek mythology.
Tell me honestly: have you ever seen A GHOST?
Death’s anniversary, is a ghost’s birthday: blowing out cake candles with supernatural breezes he teases the ectoplasm, a professional phantasm.
Are spooks international?
I am turning Japanese after a sneeze because some wasabi went up my nose. Kimonos are my clothes.
Also, I play shogi with my toes. (Shogi is a kind of chess: I’m glad to get this off my chest).
Now let’s have a SELF-REFERENTIAL HAIKU
Counting syllables when confronted with haiku ruins the effect.
That’s done. Where else can we find our fun?
Do you know the tale of Patriarchy and Mehitabel? Do you know the tail that twitches on the windowsill?
The proof is in the pudding, or so they say, but I think I know a better way: the waterproof is in the puddling duck.
A vestige of a visage? My face is the place where my luck never runs out. It may lack grace, a waste of features belonging to other creatures, but each to their own.
The philosopher doesn’t like my tone: he tells me to ponder harder but not to think about swamp imps named Marsha. Easily done: I don’t know anyone with that name.
Harsher, he calls me timid, says I am a coward. Coward? But how? I don’t know the meaning of that word but I can work it out and applied to me it’s quite absurd. It means to move in the direction of a cow, or many cows, a herd.
Have mercy if you’re thirsty. Be ruthless if you’re toothless.
Do farm girls grow on you over time, seasonally?
A question I can’t answer because I am a scarecrow. No one planted me, I do not grow. I do not know a single thing.
But I can take a guess about the mess made by guests at dinnertime. Billabong Monkeys dunk their feet in the soup in groups much larger than gorillas are long.
Is that a SONG? Somehow, I don’t think so.
And now let’s have some Soliloquies for Stringless Guitars.
Kiss her through the mask. Miss her through the cask.
Foxglove Alley. Weasel Stockings. Garter Snakes, real and fake. Rotten Shed and Rusty Rake. I venture down the Cul-de-Sac of Frogs. I lost my way in the fogs.
That isn’t fog: it’s sand. That’s no frog: it’s a panda. Are you an understander? There is no great demand for sand disguised as mist and so we insist you redo the list of things you wish to purchase in the sopping shops that underwater lie.
Swinging on a garden gate, it’s far too late to palpitate at sunset but the day’s still too early to fly away and so you may barbaric be, barbaric bee, barbaric beer.
Beer comes in at the mouth. Jokes come in at the ear. Foam comes out of the nose. POOR ATTILA lost his clothes during a drunken stupor. It’s not ideal but he is super.
Attila was very short. Only one metre tall and nocked with battle scars at one centimetre intervals. No wonder he was such an effective ruler!
He wanted his wife to call him ‘Darling’ in the marriage bed but she insisted on calling him ‘Hun’ instead.
Oh dear! Have no fear: King Lear has shed a tear that splashes on the lashes of the whip that thickens cream in dreams.
When I was younger I had a narrow mind and only thought of narrow things: tight corridors, blocked canals, mountain ledges, malnourished gulls, ladders designed for stick insects, crevices into which no man could fall.
But now I am older and think only of wide things like canyons and gulfs, the open mouths that shout bravo at gigs, the taste in literature of well-read people, the square bases of the mighty steeples perched on churches in historical towns, the flapping gowns of aristocratic vamps, the pipe bowl of my eccentric gramps and the prehistoric snouts of pigs snuffling for unripe but fallen figs.
Listen closely, my dear…
My love for you might sound hyperbolic to hyperactive alcoholics. But it will sound perfectly fine to good romantic folks.
Now here’s a thing: sea roofs on the inside are called sea lings.
Freshwater otters in Goa. Salty authors in the shower. Both are so clean but only the latter dare dream of rivers of cash. The former dream only of fish.
FOR A FLUTE?
Love for a flute is holy love because a flute without holes is a stick and love for sticks makes me sick but flutes have holes thus my stomach will settle at the base of the kettle and I will laugh: tea-hee cough-hee.
The frozen lion thaws before he roars.
A thaw in the old ball bearings and the machinery of his desire began working again.
The machine marks time like a strict examiner puffing out his metal cheeks in the weeks before the summer holidays.
Do machines really play the drums?
As a rule of thumb, yes! Keeping the beat with steel feet. How neat. What a treat. The soul of the dance is deep in the soles. The heels heal the heart.
We have our whole lifetimes A HEAD of us in which to try out new hairstyles, she said. She knew what she was talking about. The barber’s wife.
The gentle love drizzle puzzles the riddler. The lion is sizzling in the meri jaan frying pan over the fire of our heartfelt desire.
And that’s the end of the line for the wandering rhymes and the Nomads of the Bone will soon end up back home.
*meri jaan is an endearment in Hindi meaning my life
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
Ghosts have been interpreted as frightening, funny, gory or weird. In this collection, we bring to you some ghostly meanderings from our pages, not written by ghosts but written about ghosts or spooky encounters that are philosophical (occasionally), funny and weird.
With enough horrors in the real world around us, we decided to focus more (not fully) on the comedic and explore horror from the perspective of fun with hopefully a cathartic impact, which will deviate our minds from realities like war, hunger and climate change. Some of the tellings may be just spooky… some claim to be real encounters… are they scary or funny? Read and find out…
Art by Henry Tayali(1943-1987). From Public Domain
Let us imagine a world where wars have been outlawed and there is only peace. Is that even possible outside of John Lennon’s song? While John Gray, a modern-day thinker, propounds human nature cannot change despite technological advancements, one has to only imagine how a cave dweller would have told his family flying to the moon was an impossibility. And yet, it has been proven a reality and now, we are thinking living in outer space, though currently it is only the forte of a few elitists and astronomers. Maybe, it will become an accessible reality as shown in books by Isaac Asimov, Arthur C Clarke or shows like Star Trek and Star Wars. Perhaps, it’s only dreamers or ideators pursuing unreal hopes and urges who often become the change makers, the people that make humanity move forward. In Borderless, we merely gather your dreams and present them to the world. That is why we love to celebrate writers from across all languages and cultures with translations and writings that turn current norms topsy turvy. We feature a number of such ideators in this issue.
Nazrul in his times, would have been one such ideator, which is why we carry a song by him translated by Professor Fakrul Alam. And yet before him was Tagore — this time we carry a translation of an unusual poem about happiness. From current times, we present to you a poet — perhaps the greatest Malay writer in Singapore — Isa Kamari. He has translated his longing for changes into his poems. His novels and stories express the same longing as he shares in The Lost Mantras, his self-translated poems that explore adapting old to new. We will be bringing these out over a period of time. We also have poems by Hrushikesh Mallick translated from Odia by Snehprava Das and a poignant story by Sharaf Shad translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch.
Book reviews homes an indepth introduction by Somdatta Mandal to Banu Mushtaq’s Heart Lamp: Selected Stories, translated from Kannada by Deepa Bhasthi. We have a discussion by Meenakshi Malhotra on Contours of Him: Poems, edited and introduced by Malaysian academic, Malachi Edwin Vethamani, in which she concludes, “that if femininity is a construct, so is masculinity.” Overriding human constructs are journeys made by migrants. Rupak Shreshta has introduced us to immigrant Sangita Swechcha’s Rose’s Odyssey: Tales of Love and Loss, translated from Nepali by Jayant Sharma. Bhaskar Parichha winds up this section with his exploration of Kalpana Karunakaran’s A Woman of No Consequence: Memory, Letters and Resistance in Madras. He tells us: “A Woman of No Consequence restores dignity to what is often dismissed as ordinary. It chronicles the spiritual and intellectual evolution of a woman who sought transcendence within the rhythms of domestic life, turning the everyday into a site of resistance and renewal.” Again, by the sound of it a book that redefines the idea that housework is mundane and gives dignity to women and the task at hand.
We wind up the October issue hoping for changes that will lead to a happier existence, helping us all connect with the commonality of emotions, overriding borders that hurt humanity, other species and the Earth.
Huge thanks to our fabulous team, especially Sohana Manzoor for her inimitable artwork. We would all love to congratulate Hughes for his plays that ran houseful in Swansea. And heartfelt thanks to all our wonderful contributors, without who this issue would not have been possible, and to our readers, who make it worth our while, to write and publish.
There was a young ghost from the moon who said, “Too late is too soon!” On a spectral mandolin because he can’t sing he strums a phantasmic tune.
The skeleton sat down to dinner forgetting he had been a sinner in his former life when he berated his wife for not being fitter and slimmer.
The headless phantom was right to complain about electric light. Because of the glare on the highest stair his scares lack sufficient fright.
The werewolf was rarely hairy and this meant he wasn’t scary enough for the toughs in collars and cuffs he met on the moonlit prairie.
There was a zombie technician who lurched on one final mission to invent a reactor to power a tractor that relied on fusion, not fission.
The vampire was feeling quite batty because his cloak had grown tatty. So he remained at home at ease on his own wheezing the Gymnopédies of Satie.
A demon who newly adored tiramisu composed an ardent billet-doux to the pudding in question without any digression on his previous love for Vindaloo.
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
Night in Karnataka. And the chapatti-flat pointy faced chap taking a nap on the lap of the cool breeze, spearlike chin piercing the caps of his hard knees, finally wakes...
My nap was nipped in the bed… I mean bud, he said.
And he yawns in an hour long before dawn. Soon she will return and he will sing:
Yours were the tamarind tipped mammaries from which I sipped with my lips without pause.
Already he can hear her footsteps as she walks along the path next to the river. O! night in balmy Karnataka! Mango fandango and guava palaver. She croons the following:
I will strip you down and kiss you all over. And tickle you with my sweet tongue on the sides of your ribs. Then I’ll pluck one of your ribs and make a woman. A rib-cage ready-made maid.
HE: She can cook for us? SHE: Yes, but you must pay her well. HE: With what? I am penniless and feckless, a freckle-cheeked pointy faced chap, brow-beaten and lacking grace, who clearly hasn’t eaten for several days. SHE: I have brought you a coconut. We will eat it together inside the hut. A rhyme will fill us up until then, will it not?
(She dances alluringly)
Coconut husk or husky voice. We have no choice but to enjoy the coconut milk of human kindness.
HE: There is no tool to open it. SHE: Crack it with your chin, O pointy faced chap! Thwack it once or twice or even thrice and don’t be such a fool. HE: I know that a man in love is like a glove without a hand. I am that glove and I need a hand with the gift that you bring. To crack a nut as big as that requires more than a simple chin. It would damage my heavenly head and to be well fed I am not inclined to sin. I am feckless but clearly not reckless. That shell would be hell for my infernal chin.
And then she says:
Wary of shells you are. I wear tinkling bells on my ankles. Can you hear them from afar? O! pointy faced chap you should clap your hands and tap your heels to keep the fine timing of this rhyme, to keep the sublime rhythm of this auspicious, meretricious, quite delicious song.
HE: I will clap and tap as I am bid.
(An hour or two goes by)
From his rib she makes a maid but he is afraid something will go wrong. And it does. The maid has no desire to work like a slave. She plucks one of his other ribs and makes a man before they can stop her. The maid and the new man sing an amorous duet before eloping:
Robbed of ribs he rubs his chest. We must confess that we would take any part of his body that was required for us to achieve our desire. A ready made maid and her bony beau. Off we go to set up house together…
(No matter the weather, they flee.)
HE: They are eloping on a horse. There are no horses here. I don’t understand! SHE: O! pointy faced chap. The coconut halves are hooves and this proves that nothing but nothing is an obstacle to true love. He: Nothing but nothing? Now then. What is this second nothing of which you speak? Tell me quickly and kiss my cheek. SHE: Pay attention then! Pay it with any amount of rupees you please. Pay with the coin-like reflections of stars on your knees.
O! That is the nothing of the void that we must avoid for as long as we can. We squeak when we contemplate it, for it’s a void that sits on the chair of our souls. Be bold! Forget the ways of the old, we have each other. Closer than sister and brother, you and I. Never before in history has a pointy faced chap quite as daft been so truly adored….
And they embrace each other and she sinks more deeply into his chest than usual, for he is missing two ribs. Dawn has broken but love has been mended. And there will be other nights when they will sing the simple refrain:
O! night in Karnataka! O! night in Karnataka!
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
Borderless 