Tag: Ross Salvage

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Contents

Borderless, January 2026

Art by Sohana Manzoor

Editorial

Sense and Nonsense: Atonal, Imperfect, Incomplete… Click here to read.

Translations

Akashe Aaj Choriye Delam Priyo(I sprinkle in the sky) by Nazrul has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.

Four of his own Malay poems have been translated by Isa Kamari. Click here to read.

Six Fragments by Sayad Hashumi have been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.

Five poems by Pravasini Mahakuda have been translated to English from Odia by Snehaprava Das. Click here to read.

A Poet in Exile by Dmitry Blizniuk has been translated from Ukranian by Sergey Gerasimov. Click here to read.

Kalponik or Imagined by Tagore has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Click here to read.

Pandies Corner

Songs of Freedom: The Seven Mysteries of Sumona’s Life is an autobiographical narrative by Sumona (pseudonym), translated from Hindustani by Grace M Sukanya. These stories highlight the ongoing struggle against debilitating rigid boundaries drawn by societal norms, with the support from organisations like Shaktishalini and Pandies. Click here to read.

Poetry

Click on the names to read the poems

Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Ron Pickett, Snehaprava Das, Stephen Druce, Phil Wood, Akintoye Akinsola, Michael Lauchlan, Pritika Rao, SR Inciardi, Richard Murphy, Jim Murdoch, Pramod Rastogi, Joy Anne O’Donnell, Andrew Leggett, Ananya Sarkar, Annette Gagliardi, Rhys Hughes

Poets, Poetry & Rhys Hughes

In What is a Prose Poem?, Rhys Hughes tells us what he understands about the genre and shares four of his. Click here to read.

Musings/Slices from Life

Duties For Those Left Behind

Keith Lyons muses on a missing friend in Bali. Click here to read.

That Time of Year

Rick Bailey muses about the passage of years. Click here to read.

All So Messi!

Farouk Gulsara takes a look at events in India and Malaysia and muses. Click here to read.

How Twins Revive Spiritual Heritage Throbbing Syncretism

Prithvijeet Sinha takes us to the Lucknow of 1800s. Click here to read.

Recycling New Jersey

Karen Beatty gives a glimpse of her life. Click here to read.

Musings of a Copywriter

In ‘All Creatures Great and Small’, Devraj Singh Kalsi writes of animal interactions. Click here to read.

Notes from Japan

In The Cat Stationmaster of Kishi, Suzanne Kamata visits a small town where cats are cherished. Click here to read.

Essays

The Untold Stories of a Wooden Suitcase

Larry S. Su recounts his past in China and weaves a narrative of resilience. Click here to read.

A Place to Remember

Randriamamonjisoa Sylvie Valencia dwells on her favourite haunt. Click here to read.

Christmas that Almost Disappeared

Farouk Gulsara writes of Charles Dickens’ hand in reviving the Christmas spirit. Click here to read.

The Last of the Barbers: How the Saloon Became the Salon (and Where the Gossip Went)

Charudutta Panigrahi writes an essay steeped in nostalgia and yet weaving in the present. Click here to read.

Aeons of Art

In Art is Alive, Ratnottama Sengupta introduces the antiquity of Indian art. Click here to read.

Stories

Old Harry’s Game

Ross Salvage tells a poignant story about friendship with an old tramp. Click here to read.

Mrs. Thompson’s Package

Mary Ellen Campagna explores the macabre in a short fiction. Click here to read.

Hold on to What You Let Go

Rajendra Kumar Roul relates a story of compassion and expectations. Click here to read.

Used Steinways

Jonathan B. Ferrini shares a story about pianos and people set in Los Angeles. Click here to read.

The Rose’s Wish

Naramsetti Umamaheswararao relates a fable involving flowers and bees. Click here to read.

Discussion

A brief discusion of Whereabouts of the Anonymous: Exploration of the Invisible by Rajorshi Patranabis with an exclusive interview with the author on his supernatural leanings. Click here to read.

Book Excerpts

An excerpt from Showkat Ali’s The Struggle: A Novel, translated from Bengali by V. Ramaswamy and Mohiuddin Jahangir. Clickhere to read.

An excerpt from Anuradha Marwah’s The Higher Education of Geetika Mehendiratta. Click here to read.

Book Reviews

Somdatta Mandal reviews Showkat Ali’s The Struggle: A Novel, translated from Bengali by V. Ramaswamy and Mohiuddin Jahangir. Click here to read.

Meenakshi Malhotra reviews Anuradha Marwah’s The Higher Education of Geetika Mehendiratta. Click here to read.

Udita Banerjee reviews The Lost Pendant, translated (from Bengali) Partition poetry edited by Angshuman Kar. Click here to read.

Bhaskar Parichha reviews Rakesh Dwivedi’s Colonization Crusade and Freedom of India: A Saga of Monstrous British Barbarianism around the Globe. Click here to read.

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Amazon International

Categories
Editorial

Sense and Nonsense: Atonal, Imperfect, Incomplete

Incomplete statues of Michelangelo in Accademia Gallery, Florence

In the Accademia Gallery, Florence, are housed incomplete statues by Michelangelo that were supposed to accompany his sculpture of Moses on the grand tomb of Pope Julius II. The sculptures despite being unfinished, incomplete and therefore imperfect, evoke a sense of power. They seem to be wresting forcefully with the uncarved marble to free their own forms — much like humanity struggling to lead their own lives. Life now is comparable to atonal notes of modern compositions that refuse to fall in line with more formal, conventional melodies. The new year continues with residues of unending wars, violence, hate and chaos. Yet amidst all this darkness, we still live, laugh and enjoy small successes. The smaller things in our imperfect existence bring us hope, the necessary ingredient that helps us survive under all circumstances.

Imperfections, like Michelangelo’s Non-finito statues in Florence, or modern atonal notes, go on to create vibrant, relatable art. There is also a belief that when suffering is greatest, arts flourish. Beauty and hope are born of pain. Will great art or literature rise out of the chaos we are living in now?  One wonders if ancient art too was born of humanity’s struggle to survive in a comparatively younger world where they did not understand natural forces and whose history we try to piece together with objects from posterity. Starting on a journey of bringing ancient art from her part of the world, Ratnottama Sengupta shares a new column with us from this January.

Drenched in struggles of the past is also Showkat Ali’s The Struggle: A Novel, translated from Bengali by V. Ramaswamy and Mohiuddin Jahangir. It has been reviewed by Somdatta Mandal who sees it a socio-economic presentation of the times. We also carry an excerpt from the book as we do for Anuradha Marwah’s The Higher Education of Geetika Mehendiratta. Marwha’s novel has been reviewed by Meenakshi Malhotra who sees it as a bildungsroman and a daring book. Bhaskar Parichha has brought to us a discussion on colonial history about Rakesh Dwivedi’s Colonization Crusade and Freedom of India: A Saga of Monstrous British Barbarianism around the Globe. Udita Banerjee has also delved into history with her exploration of Angshuman Kar’s The Lost Pendant, a collection of poems written by poets who lived through the horrors of Partition and translated from Bengali by multiple poets. One of the translators, Rajorshi Patranabis, has also discussed his own book of supernatural encounters, Whereabouts of the Anonymous: Exploration of the Invisible. A Wiccan by choice, Patranbis claims to have met with residual energies or what we in common parlance call ghosts and spoken to many of them. He not only clicked these ethereal beings — and has kindly shared his photos in this feature — but also has written a whole book about his encounters, including with the malevolent spirits of India’s most haunted monument, the Bhangarh Fort.

Bringing us an essay on a book that had spooky encounters is Farouk Gulsara, showing how Dickens’ A Christmas Carol revived a festival that might have got written off. We have a narrative revoking the past from Larry Su, who writes of his childhood in the China of the 1970s and beyond. He dwells on resilience — one of the themes we love in Borderless Journal. Karen Beatty also invokes ghosts from her past while sharing her memoir. Rick Bailey brings in a feeling of mortality in his musing while Keith Lyons, writes in quest of his friend who mysteriously went missing in Bali. Let’s hope he finds out more about him.

Charudutta Panigrahi writes a lighthearted piece on barbers of yore, some of whom can still be found plying their trade under trees in India. Randriamamonjisoa Sylvie Valencia dwells on her favourite place which continues to rejuvenate and excite while Prithvijeet Sinha writes about haunts he is passionate about, the ancient monuments of Lucknow. Gulsara has woven contemporary lores into his satirical piece, involving Messi, the footballer. Bringing compassionate humour with his animal interactions is Devraj Singh Kalsi, who is visited daily by not just a bovine visitor, but cats, monkeys, birds and more — and he feeds them all. Suzanne Kamata takes us to Kishi, brought to us by both her narrative and pictures, including one of a feline stationmaster!

Rhys Hughes has discussed prose poems and shared a few of his own along with three separate tongue-in-cheek verses on meteorological romances. In poetry, we have a vibrant selection from across the globe with poems by Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Ron Pickett, Snehaprava Das, Stephen Druce, Phil Wood, Akintoye Akinsola, Michael Lauchlan, Pritika Rao, SR Inciardi, Jim Murdoch, Pramod Rastogi, Joy Anne O’Donnell, Andrew Leggett, Ananya Sarkar and Annette Gagliardi. Richard Murphy has poignant poems about refugees while Dmitry Bliznik of Ukraine, has written a first-hand account of how he fared in his war-torn world in his poignant poem, ‘A Poet in Exile’, translated from Ukranian by Sergey Gerasimov —

We've run away from the simmering house
like milk that is boiling over. Now I'm single again.
The sun hangs behind a ruffled up shed,
like a bloody yolk on a cold frying pan
until the nightfall dumps it in the garbage…

('A Poet in Exile', by Dmitry Blizniuk, translated from Ukranian by Sergey Gerasimov)

In translations, we have Professor Fakrul Alam’s rendition of Nazrul’s mellifluous lyrics from Bengali. Isa Kamari has shared four more of his Malay poems in English bringing us flavours of his culture. Snehaparava Das has similarly given us flavours of Odisha with her translation of Pravasini Mahakuda’s Odia poetry. A taste of Balochistan comes to us from Fazal Baloch’s rendition of Sayad Hashumi’s Balochi quatrains in English. Tagore’s poem ‘Kalponik’ (Imagined) has been rendered in English. This was a poem that was set to music by his niece, Sarala Devi.

After a long hiatus, we are delighted to finally revive Pandies Corner with a story by Sumona translated from Hindustani by Grace M Sukanya. Her story highlights the ongoing struggle against debilitating rigid boundaries drawn by societal norms. Sumana has assumed a pen name as her story is true and could be a security risk for her. She is eager to narrate her story — do pause by and take a look.

In fiction, we have a poignant narrative about befriending a tramp by Ross Salvage, and macabre and dark one by Mary Ellen Campagna, written with a light touch. It almost makes one think of Eugene Ionesco. Jonathan B. Ferrini shares a heartfelt story about used Steinway pianos and growing up in Latino Los Angeles. Rajendra Kumar Roul weaves a narrative around compassion and expectations. Naramsetti Umamaheswararao gives a beautiful fable around roses and bees.

With that, we come to the end of a bumper issue with more than fifty peices. Huge thanks to all our fabulous contributors, some of whom have not just written but shared photographs to illustrate the content. Do pause by our contents page and take a look. My heartfelt thanks to our fabulous team for their output and support, especially Sohana Manzoor who does our cover art. And most of all huge thanks to readers whose numbers keep growing, making it worth our while to offer our fare. Thank you all.

Here’s wishing all of you better prospects for the newborn year and may we move towards peace and sanity in a world that seems to have gone amuck!

Happy Reading!

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

CLICK HERE TO ACCESS THE CONTENTS FOR THE JANUARY 2026 ISSUE.

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READ THE LATEST UPDATES ON THE FIRST BORDERLESS ANTHOLOGY, MONALISA NO LONGER SMILES, BY CLICKING ON THIS LINK.

Categories
Stories

Old Harry’s Game

By Ross Salvage

It’s twelve o’clock on one of those autumnal spring days. The clouds hang expectantly, waiting to pour their copious contents on unsuspecting recipients; gone are the mare’s tails of the morning’s optimistic outlook. Unaware of the drama above, small children are playing in the enclosed space marked for the younger generations and their mums, one moment laughing, the next moment mopping skinned knees and bumped heads where the children’s end of the world cries are calmed not by nuclear disarmament but a well-placed wet wipe.

It’s twelve o’clock and Harry turns up for work. His metal grey dank and weary coat covers a series of layers of varying shades of dirty brown garments, thankfully mostly hidden from view. His wild and far-flung white hair frames a moth-eaten face, pockmarked and gnarled like tree bark. The hair at the crown of his head has long gone and is replaced by a scarred and spotted pate which it seems has witnessed much violence.

It’s a seasonal thing for me and Harry. Spring rekindles the relationship we’ve never had. I’ve noticed over the past three years that he is fading. The walk has become a shuffle, and every movement is considered carefully.

A few passers-by acknowledge his existence, but most avoid his gaze and he mindlessly watches them hurry past. A busy, well-turned-out lady stops and gives Harry a sandwich. He acknowledges the gift and pushes the contents of the cardboard container into his mouth in one go. The lady’s face is hidden from view, but I imagine there is a look of scorn aimed Harry’s way.

Cheek’s bulging, Harry moves between bins. Not much there yet, he’ll wait until the hour’s up and people with eyes bigger than their bellies will be ditching excess produce. He comes my way and slowly stops in front of me. I take out the extra tuna sandwiches I bought and offer them in his direction. He takes them and nods. He repeats the process of putting a whole sandwich into his mouth at once. The other he pockets for now.

“Any change?” He splutters as pieces of half chewed bread sprinkle the floor.

“No Harry, I don’t do money, you know that.”

He’ll get tired soon and rest. He won’t have any trouble getting a seat. If the benches are full, he merely stops in front of one and stares intently at an individual. This is Old Harry’s Game. It’s not long before they remove themselves. Then within a minute, he will have the bench to himself. If this fails, he just conspicuously starts scratching his crotch. Sure enough, in a wink of an eye Harry is laid out flat on the bench and the former occupants scattered around the park. However, today, he lands on my bench, with a thump.

“You can scratch your balls all you like Harry, I’m not moving.”

Harry reaches down and lifts his left trouser leg to reveal a large patch of red and yellow skin. He looks up at me and his face breaks from the usual inscrutable pose to one of pain and panic.

“I think it’s infected.” And just like that, Harry is no longer the surly tramp that inhabits my lunch spot, but someone in need.

“Do you want my help?” Harry nods.

Fifty minutes later myself and Harry are ensconced in the back of an ambulance. The ambulanceman asked Harry a few questions and I find out more in thirty seconds than I have in the last three years about Harry the tramp. He’s Harry Denton and he’s been on the street for ten years. He’s sixty-two, has one son somewhere, but he hadn’t seen him for a long time.

Thankfully St Andrew’s hospital was quiet for a change on that Tuesday morning. Doctor Sukhra got Harry to lie down. She was diminutive and ordered, and Harry didn’t argue. She seemed immune to the smell that emanated from her patient and I’m guessing he wasn’t an isolated case of ‘Homeless man turns up at Accident and Emergency’.

“Are you a relation?”

“I’m Gareth, A friend…sort of.”

“Now Mr Denton tell me all about this wound.”

It turns out he’d had it for weeks, cut it getting through some wire fencing. She attempted to cut the trousers, but Harry wouldn’t have it, so he rolled the leg up.

“Well, that’s one of the best examples of advanced gangrenous infection I’ve seen. I’m going to call Mr Archer down to look at it. He may be able to save that leg by treating the infection with antibiotics. You’ve left things late sir.”

The next few days I visited Harry. We didn’t talk really, there was no bonding as such, and I mostly ended up playing on my phone. Eventually, Mr Archer came around and broke the news that I’m pretty sure Harry didn’t want to hear.

“Right, Mr Denton. Unfortunately treating that leg hasn’t worked and if you don’t want to die from that infection, we are going to have to amputate that leg just below the knee. You’re damned lucky the infection hasn’t spread further.”

I think my lasting memory from that moment was Harry’s silence. There was a sigh and the shake of a head, but otherwise nothing. The operation would take place on Tuesday, at one o’clock.

“I’ll be back on Tuesday evening,” I assured Harry. It seemed not to register, and I left the hospital once again not sure if I had visited anybody. It was a fraught couple of days, and I was annoyed that my neat and tidy life had been taken over by a tramp.

Monday finally crawled into Tuesday, and at five o’clock I left my desk and headed to St Andrew’s. I picked up some Lucozade from the hospital shop, which somehow seemed little compensation to someone who had just had his leg cut off. I stood outside the ward for a bit, taking longer than usual to apply the hand gel and eventually with a conscious deep breath I went in. I got to Harry’s bed and stood there quizzically. There was a stranger lying in it. I checked I’d come to the right cubicle as they pretty much all look the same, and sure enough this was the correct one. I turned to the nursing station. Perhaps they had moved Harry to another ward following the operation. I was then escorted to an empty private room. The nurse closed the door behind us.

“You’re Harry Denton’s friend, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I clutched my Lucozade bottle a little tighter.

“I’m afraid Mr Denton didn’t make it. He suffered a heart attack whilst in surgery and never regained consciousness. I’m sorry. We have his belonging here, which aren’t many. We incinerated the clothes he came in.”

I was presented with a small parcel. Enclosed were a few coins, a small knife, tin opener and two sealed envelopes. I looked at the nurse.

 “Do you know any of his relatives?” I shook my head.

“I’m sorry he didn’t pull through. Would you mind leaving your details at the desk, as you’re the only contact we have for him.” I did so, and left the hospital stunned.  At home, I examined the two unopened envelopes. One addressed to me, the other to his son. What struck me was the quality of the handwriting. Neat, cursive and rather elegant. I opened my envelope.

Dear Gareth,

       Thank you for taking the time to look after me. I lost my wife several years ago, and myself and my son became estranged. We didn’t get on without her. Could you send the other envelope to him? It’s the last address I had. The money is for my funeral. Keep any that is left over. Thank you for the sandwiches.

         Harry

Also in the envelope was a cheque for four thousand pounds. So, I made the arrangements. God knows where he got the money from. I sent notification of the time and date of the funeral to Harry’s son, but no acknowledgement came back.

So, on a cold, wet April day, the vicar and I stood over Harry’s grave. The rain drove under my umbrella and my only black suit began to get damp at the knees. The Reverend Allison read the ‘Lord’s my Shepherd’, and we both cast some dirt onto the coffin. The vicar’s umbrella holder signalled to the grave diggers and Harry left the world, buried by an old stone wall in St Michael’s churchyard overlooked by a yew tree. A good spot I thought. Stephen Denton unfortunately didn’t appear, so it was just left to the three of us to say goodbye.

I don’t know if there is a heaven, but if there is I hope it has benches just like the ones in the park, where my tramp friend can play Old Harry’s game to his heart’s content and outrage old ladies on a regular basis. I think it made him happy.

Ross Salvage is a retired teacher who came late to writing. He has written comedy sketches for two review shows (Newsrevue-London and The Treason Show-Brighton). Three monologues can be found on YouTube (Spaghetti Bolognese for One/ Being Greta Thunberg/ Keeping Mum) and he has had two plays performed at the Dolman Theatre, Newport UK. The last one (Drawing the Line) was a winner in their one act play competition. Tea at Five, his first play, has been performed on stage and radio. Ross is currently seeking publication of his children’s novel, Octavius Blood and the Blood Oath.

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