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!
Sunetra spoke, moving towards her husband with her finger pressed against an advertisement in the morning’s newspaper. Her face was glowing with joy and expectation.
Soumitra, seated opposite her in their living room and sipping his tea, put the cup down on the centre table and leaned forward with curiosity.
The advertisement read as follows:
CourageCorpTM – Bravery for the Masses
Are you sick of shrinking back in silence? Are you tired of your loved ones reminding you of your timidity? Well, we’ve got good news for you! At CourageCorpTM, our patent-pending BravaSerumTM infuses a dose of instant valour directly into your bloodstream.
Heroism has never been this easy.
Sign up today to avail limited special discounts on a first come first serve basis.
Don’t worry, if it doesn’t work, we’ll provide you with a full refund!
Hurry up and grab your daily dose of heroism!
Soumitra’s lips twisted into a look of ridicule. He was on the verge of responding with a sharp retort when, lifting his gaze, he found his wife looking on with eager eyes.
A feeling of uneasiness swept over his mind.
In his forty years of existence, Soumitra had never been a man of courage. Ever since his childhood, he had always shunned fights, stayed out of trouble, and crumbled in the face of adversity. Adjectives like timid, mild, and cowardly had stuck to him like stubborn stains unwilling to be washed away.
Even his wife Sunetra, who loved him with unwavering devotion, mourned his lack of intent and valour from time to time. Although it had never caused any serious rift in their married life, Sunetra had always wondered what it would be like to have a husband who could take things into his own hands when the going got tough.
Today, confronted with this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, she had already started dreaming and could hardly contain her excitement.
Soumitra wiped a bead of sweat that had formed on his forehead. He was no fool. He had realised that a moment of reckoning had arrived. “Do you really believe in this nonsense?” He tried to sound firm, but failed.
“What’s the harm in trying?” She replied with unabated excitement. “They have mentioned that they will give us a refund if it doesn’t work!”
“B-but what if there are, you know, side effects?” Soumitra whispered with desperation.
It was now Sunetra’s turn to look at his husband with ridicule. This was all too familiar. He was trying to run away again.
Just like in that trip to Kashmir, when Soumitra had refused to board a cable car, insisting that the cables looked too fragile to carry so many people. She had to board alone and returned to find her husband safely sipping tea in a restaurant.
Then there was another time at a wedding, when a fight had broken out between two of their drunken friends. Instead of rushing to break the fight like the others, Soumitra had conspicuously left the room in the blink of an eye.
And of course, who could forget the “lizard incident”, when a large house lizard on their bedroom ceiling had sent him scrambling for a broom to fend off the attack of the “venomous reptile” – as he termed it. But finally, it was Sunetra who had driven the lizard away, while her husband had looked on with broom in hand.
“For God’s sake, stop being so apprehensive!” Sunetra finally broke the silence. “Everything will be alright!”
“B-but,” Soumitra tried in vain to interject.
“No more buts, Soumitra,” Sunetra retorted sharply, and with authority. “We are going. That’s final.”
Soumitra heaved a long sigh, accepting his defeat and resigning himself to his fate. Not once in their fifteen years of married life had he ever gotten the better of his wife in a war of words.
*
That weekend, around eleven in the morning, the two of them were seen climbing into a yellow taxi from the curb near their house. As Soumitra shut the cab door, Sunetra opened the newspaper clipping and revealed the address of CourageCorpTM to the waiting driver. The office, located on Rashbehari Avenue near Deshapriya Park, was a forty-minute drive from their current location.
When the taxi finally stopped at its destination, the pair spotted the large three-storied building that housed the office to their left. It was quite modern, with balconies filled with potted plants forming an elaborate vertical garden. The façade was quite colourful, and a large sign bearing the company’s name hung from the centre – emblazoned in a sans-serif font.
“Looks impressive,” Sunetra remarked while stepping out.
Soumitra hesitated momentarily but finally got out and stood on the curb. His heart was thudding against his chest, and his mind was heavy with apprehension. He took a deep breath to calm himself.
Eventually, they approached the door, where a security guard in uniform stood up and saluted them with practiced gait. He showed them the direction of the elevator and told them the floor number of the main office.
The elevator opened up to a spotless corridor with walls lined on both sides with glossy images of men and women smiling with an unnatural, and almost heroic confidence. A reception desk stood beside the elevator, and a smart-looking young woman sat scrolling on her phone.
Noticing the couple, she put her phone down and greeted them politely. Her eyes glanced at them with curiosity, trying to fathom which one of the two was the actual customer.
“Umm… Good day,” Soumitra stammered. “My wife and I had actually come for the…umm…” His voice trailed off, and his face turned red with shame at the thought of declaring his timidity to a girl nearly half his age.
But before the silence grew too awkward, Sunetra took control.
Brushing her husband aside, she thrust the newspaper cutting towards the receptionist with authority.“My husband has come for the serum,” She declared without missing a beat.
“Oh, I see,” the girl replied with a mechanical smile. “Please fill in your details here, sir. I’ll send word to the office.”
Finishing the formalities, Soumitra took a seat in one of the comfortable chairs beside the desk. A storm was brewing in his mind, and he grew restless with each passing second.
The girl, in the meantime, had picked up a receiver and announced their arrival to someone on the other end.
After what felt like an eternity, the door at the far end of the corridor swung open, revealing a man in a white lab coat who started approaching them briskly.
“Welcome, sir and ma’am!” He greeted them with rehearsed politeness – a broad smile plastered across his face. He was tall, lean, broad-shouldered, and looked to be in his mid-thirties. He had a certain intensity about him, and an unnatural gleam in his eyes – the same kind spiders get when they feel a tug in their web after several hours of waiting.
He took Soumitra’s hand in his own and gave it a firm shake – too firm for Soumitra’s liking.
“I’m Dr. Anjan Sen, head of R&D,” he said with intent.
“Please – this way,” he spoke, gesturing down the hall. The smile never left his face.
The couple walked down the hall – their shoes squeaking on the polished marble tiles below.
They reached a large room filled with a multitude of high-tech equipment. The room was part laboratory, part cabin – a curious hybrid, the best of both worlds. The walls were lined with steel counters, dotted with strange instruments that served unknown purposes. In one corner of the room, two men in similar white coats were sitting huddled together and whispering in a conspiratorial hush. They glanced up briefly at the pair before resuming their dialogue.
“Please take a seat, sir and ma’am,” Anjan pointed towards a pair of chairs opposite the only desk in the room.
As they settled in, he took the chair on the opposite side of the table, staring long and hard at Soumitra as if studying every feature on his uncertain face.
Soumitra felt uneasy under that gaze and looked down towards the floor.
“You have done a wonderful thing by deciding to take this leap of faith, sir.” He spoke with enthusiasm. “This will definitely change your life.”
“But, doctor,” Sunetra interjected. “The serum is safe, right?”
Anjan’s lips curved into an assuring smile.
“Don’t worry, ma’am,” He spoke warmly. “We’ve treated five patients till now. None of them have reported any anomalies. They all have shown remarkable results.”
Over the next few minutes, he launched into a well-rehearsed explanation of the serum – highlighting its benefits, its groundbreaking inception, and the hours of tireless work by the top minds in the country to bring their plan to fruition.
The eloquence and unshakable confidence in his voice slowly melted away the doubts in Soumitra’s mind. With every syllable he heard, his faith in the drug seemed to grow exponentially. By the time doctor Anjan had finished his speech, Soumitra was bubbling with enthusiasm – eager to get a taste of a better, and braver, life. He was convinced that this was the best decision of his life.
“We will run a few preliminary tests on you before injecting the serum, sir,” Anjan explained. “It’s just a formality.”
“Alright,” Soumitra replied. “Let’s get to it then.”
“This way, sir.” Anjan motioned to the two men in the corner of the room, and the three of them led Soumitra towards a room on the right. “You can wait here, ma’am,” He further added, turning towards Sunetra.
Sunetra nodded, remaining seated as her husband disappeared into the adjoining room. Sitting alone, she eventually took up a magazine from the table and began flipping through the pages. Her mind, however, was in the other room, and she was trying to imagine how the events were unfolding inside.
Seconds turned to minutes, and she felt herself growing restless with unease. It had been her idea, and now, in the face of the silence, she hoped that things would turn out all right.
Nearly half an hour later, the door finally opened.
Anjan appeared with his trademark smile on his face. Sunetra stood up, her face fraught with anticipation.
“Your husband has successfully received the serum, ma’am,” Anjan spoke in an assuring tone. “There’s nothing to worry about. You can come in and see him now.”
Sunetra rushed into the room.
There, on a narrow cot, Soumitra sat bare-chested, rubbing a spot on his right hand where the needle had left its mark. The two assistants stood behind him in strict vigil, watching his every movement with keen eyes.
Upon seeing his wife standing eagerly at the doorway, he broke into a laugh.
“Hello, darling,” He greeted her. “Feast your eyes on your knight-in-shining-armor.”
Sunetra heaved a sigh of relief. The joke had lightened the mood and made it clear that her husband was doing fine. Drawing closer to the cot, she whispered slowly, “How do you feel now?”
“Not that different, to be honest,” Soumitra admitted. “But then, Dr. Anjan says that most patients don’t notice a difference until a decisive moment.”
Anjan gave a nod from the doorway. “Your husband has to stay here for half an hour more, ma’am,” He added further. “Just as a precaution. Then, he’s free to go. You can sit here and chat with him in the meantime.”
The three doctors withdrew, leaving the two of them together. The couple slipped into conversation, their thoughts filled with the possibilities unlocked by their bold experiment. When the thirty minutes were over, Soumitra was told to fill out a few more forms, and then they were free.
Soumitra clasped Dr. Sen’s hands in thanks, said goodbye to the assistants, and stepped into the elevator with his wife. Once on the street, they slowly made their way towards the main road, hoping to find a cab to take them home. But just as they were about to cross the busy intersection, one of the assistants came running after them – shouting something unintelligible in their direction. Startled by this sudden arrival, the pair froze mid-crossing and turned back in confusion.
However, unbeknownst to them, a speeding car was hurtling towards them from the opposite side. As the shrill sound of the horn split the air, they swung their heads back to find the half-ton metal frame charging towards them at breakneck speed.
Soumitra’s mind raced.
He realised that the window to act was narrow, and any false step would lead to a disaster. But to his surprise, without even the slightest hesitation, he did something unthinkable.
He lunged towards his wife and shoved her clear of the incoming car. The following moment, his body struck the asphalt with a sickening thud, and his head slammed against the road.
As his consciousness began to slip, he could hear the deafening screech of tires and his wife’s desperate cry.
*
Soumitra groaned and opened his eyes slowly. A sharp pain emanated from the left side of his head.
His vision soon cleared, and he realised he was in the same cot where he had lain to take the serum a while earlier. It became apparent that he had been carried there and his injuries had been treated while he was still unconscious.
Struggling to sit up, he noticed Dr. Sen and his two assistants standing by the far wall with their backs to him. They were speaking quite animatedly, albeit in whispers, without knowing he had gained consciousness.
“How could you give him the wrong vial?” Dr. Sen was asking with alarm.
“We’re sorry, sir,” One of the assistants said nervously. “It was kept beside the original vial, and we mistook it in our hurry.”
“Did you manage to inform him in the street?” Dr. Sen asked anxiously, his voice still muffled.
“No,” the assistant replied. “He met with the accident before I got the opportunity.”
“I see,” Anjan remarked. “Then it’s best that we keep the facts from him.”
The two assistants stared in disbelief at their superior.
“A-are you sure?” One of them ventured to ask.
“Think about it,” Anjan said. “He acted out of his own courage, but he will believe it was the serum. That belief will serve us just as well, leaving us at no apparent disadvantage. Don’t you agree?”
The assistants nodded slowly, unable to counter this line of thinking. Just as Anjan turned towards him, Soumitra quickly feigned waking and pretended to stare around the room in a daze. The three doctors rushed towards him with concern.
“How’re you feeling now?” Anjan asked.
“I feel…. okay,” Soumitra replied, clutching his head. “How long was I out?”
“For nearly an hour, sir,” Anjan responded. “Thank God the car managed to stop in time.”
“My wife,” Soumitra spoke. “Is she alright? Where is she?”
“She’s absolutely fine, sir. All thanks to you.” Anjan said with admiration. “She’s in the next room, waiting eagerly for you to regain consciousness. I’ll call her in.”
“You’re a real hero, sir.” Anjan paused at the door, looked back, and added softly.
Within seconds, Sunetra burst into the room, rushed towards her husband, and threw herself into his arms. She clung to him desperately, as if afraid he would disappear as soon as she let go. “For a moment,” She sobbed uncontrollably, “I thought I’d lost you forever.” Her hot tears seeped through his shirt.
Soumitra stroked her hair gently and comforted her with words that never went above a whisper. But within him, a storm was brewing. The words of the three doctors were echoing in his mind, and questions were forming in his mind. Questions he dared not voice.
Was his courage real? Or merely an illusion of it?
Did he leap into danger because he believed that the serum had armed him with bravery? Would he have acted the same way if he had already known that the vial contained nothing but a placebo? In the quiet room, amidst his muffled wife’s sobs, Soumitra delved desperately in his mind for answers.
Sayan Sarkar was born and raised in Kolkata. He is a passionate reader and lifelong learner who spends his leisure time immersed in books and new ideas.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Most people like you and me connect with the commonality of felt emotions and needs. We feel hungry, happy, sad, loved or unloved and express a larger plethora of feelings through art, theatre, music, painting, photography and words… With these, we tend to connect. And yet, larger structures created over time to offer security and governance to the masses—of which you and I are a part — have grown divisive, and, by the looks of it, the fences nurtured over time seem insurmountable. To retain these structures that were meant to keep us safe, wars are being fought and many are getting killed, losing homes and going hungry. We showcase such stories, poems and non-fiction to create an awareness among those who are lucky enough to remain untouched. But is there a way out, so that all of us can live peacefully, without war, without hunger and with love and a vision towards surviving climate change which (like it or not) is upon us?
Creating an awareness of hunger and destruction wreaked by war is a heartrending story set in Gaza by JK Miller. While Snigdha Agrawal’s narrative gives a sense of hope, recounting a small kindness by a common person, Sayan Sarkar shares a more personal saga of friendship and disillusionment — where people have choice. But does war leave us a choice as it annihilates friendships, cities, homes and families? Naramsetti Umamaheswararao’s story reiterates the belief in the family – peace being an accepted unit. Vela Noble’s fantastical fiction and art comes like a respite– though there is a darker side to it — with a touch of fun. Perhaps, a bit of fantasy and humour opens the mind to deal with the more sombre notes of existence.
The translation section hosts a story by Hamiruddin Middya, who grew up as a farmer’s son in Bengal. Steeped in local colours, it has been rendered into English by V Ramaswamy. Nazrul’s song revelling in the colours of spring has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Atta Shad’s pensive Balochi lines have been brought to us in English by Fazal Baloch. Isa Kamari continues to bring the flavours of an older, more laid-back Singapore with translations of his own Malay poems. A couple of Persian verses have been rendered into English by the poet, Akram Yazdani, herself. Questing for harmony, Tagore’s translated poem while reflecting on a child’s life, urges us to have the courage to be like a child — open, innocent and willing to imagine a world laced with trust and hope. If we were all to do that, do you think we’d still have wars, violence and walls built on hate and intolerance?
Mario Fenech takes a look at the idea of time. Amir Zadnemat writes of how memory is impacted by both science and humanities while Andriy Nivchuk brings to us snippets from Herodotus’s and Pericles’s lives that still read relevant. Ravi Varmman K Kanniappan gives the journey of chickpeas across space and time, asserting: “The chickpea does not care about your ideology, your portfolio, or your meticulously curated identity. It will grow, fix nitrogen, feed someone, and move on without a press release.” It has survived over aeons in a borderless state!
In book excerpts, we have a book that transcends borders as it’s a translation from Assamese by Ranjita Biswas of Arupa Kalita Patangia’s Moonlight Saga. Any translation is an attempt to integrate the margins into the mainstream of literature, and this is no less. The other excerpt is from Natalie Turner’s The Red Silk Dress. Keith Lyons has interviewed Turner about her novel which crosses multiple cultures too while on a personal quest.
Holding on to that idea, we invite you to savour the contents of our February issue.
Huge thanks to all our contributors and readers for making this issue possible. Heartfelt thanks to our wonderful team, especially Sohana Manzoor for her fabulous artwork.
Enjoy the reads!
Let’s look forward to the spring… May it bring new ideas to help us all move towards more amicable times.
The singsong voice of the conductor filled the air in the busy intersection of Rabindra Sadan.
Sanjib crossed the road hurriedly, raising his hand to attract the conductor’s attention lest the bus left the stand before he reached it. The conductor nodded assuredly, indicating they had no intention of leaving so soon.
Sanjib boarded the bus and occupied a window seat near the front. Flicking his wrist, he looked at his watch — 4:15pm. He had ample time to make the trip to Belepole and return by 9pm
After a couple more minutes of waiting at the stand, the engine revved and the bus slowly made its way towards the Second Hooghly Bridge. As the conductor made his customary gesture for the ticket, Sanjib handed him a 50 rupee note.
“Belepole,” he added with excitement.
Sanjib’s heart was fluttering in his chest. He was going to visit Belepole, the place where he was born, after almost two decades. He had spent fourteen years of his life in that place — almost his entire childhood. But when he was in grade 9, his father — a central government officer —got a posting in Delhi, and they moved there permanently after selling their house to a promoter. Things became very hectic after that. There was school, then college, then masters, then PhD, then a post-doc in Europe, and finally a teaching position in a reputed central government institute in the capital city. The years passed by like a whirlwind, starting and ending within the blink of an eye. Sanjib had come to Kolkata only a handful of times within that period but never found the time or opportunity of visiting his birthplace.
This time, however, was different.
This time, he had come to Rabindra Sadan to attend the inauguration of an art exhibition hosted by his school friend and renowned artist Pulak Banerjee. The interactions with his old friend brought back memories of his birthplace — which was only half an hour from the gallery on the other side of the Hooghly River — to his mind, and he was filled with an intense desire to pay a visit to the locality where his journey had started. Pulak supported this idea wholeheartedly, but he let Sanjib go on the sole condition that he be back for dinner at Peter Cat around 9 pm.
As the bus raced past the innumerable cables of the Second Hooghly bridge, countless fond memories of his youth flooded Sanjib’s mind. Memories of their three-storied house — which was almost a hundred years old, memories of the pond where he used to swim summer and winter, memories of his neighbors and their smiling faces, memories of all the childhood mischief and scoldings. They started appearing one after another, like hours-long video fast-forwarded to finish within only a few seconds.
But even amid this deluge, the memory of a single person stood out sharply against the rest. The memory of his childhood friend — Anil.
Anil, who was only one year his senior, had been his next-door neighbor. The two friends had grown up together and were almost inseparable. Not a single day had passed in those fourteen years that the two friends hadn’t played or spent some time together. Wherever one went, the other followed. Whatever one did, the other copied. They were up to all sorts of mischief together, and had become the terror of the locality for an extended period of time. Anil belonged to a relatively poor family, and could only afford education in a Bengali medium school. Sanjib, and his parents always welcomed him into their household with open arms, and he went on multiple trips with Sanjib and his family.
Anil wasn’t very good in studies, and barely passed his examinations is school. But what he lacked in intelligence, he more than made up for in athleticism. He was a great cricketer and an expert swimmer. He participated in many state level competitions and even won a few medals over the years. The two friends had a pact — Sanjib would help Anil with his studies, and Anil would help Sanjib improve his batting and swimming forms.
For fourteen long years, they had laughed and cried and fought and grown up together, until one day, Sanjib had to move away. It was the most difficult moment of their young lives, and a lot of tears were shed and promises were made. Anil didn’t have a landline at home at that time, so it was decided that he would visit a nearby shop every other day at a pre-determined time and Sanjib would call him there.
This ritual was followed religiously for nearly two years before Sanjib’s tuition timings and the pressure of his impending board and competitive examinations finally caught up with him. Slowly but surely, the two friends drifted apart. Pretty soon, Anil was relegated to Sanjib’s subconscious mind, waiting to be liberated again by some external stimulus.
That stimulus finally arrived nearly two decades later, and Sanjib’s mind was once again filled with the memories of his dear old friend and companion.
“Belepole is coming. Belepole is coming,” the conductor announced in his characteristic voice.
Sanjib got up from his seat.
Alighting from the bus, he slowly made his way towards the familiar by lane that led to his neighborhood — his para. As he walked along the alley, his mind was once again crowded with incidents from his childhood. These streets were once his playground, and there was a time when he knew every square inch of this locality like the back of his hand. Every nook and cranny of this place was filled with memories. Some of the old buildings he could still recognise, but many of the old ones had given way to more modern apartments. His para had undergone a transformation with time, confirming the old saying that change is the only constant in the universe.
Sanjib soon reached the location of his old house and found a modern four-storied apartment standing tall in its stead. He had seen pictures of this apartment in his father’s phone, but this was the first time he saw it with his own eyes. He stood rooted to the spot, mentally drawing the outline of his old house and comparing it with the present architecture.
He could still visualise every detail clearly against the modified backdrop — his bedroom, the living room, the kitchen, the dining room. It was as if he was seeing through the new apartment and staring into his long-lost past.
“Heyyy maaan. What’s your problem?”
A hoarse voice suddenly interrupted Sanjib’s reverie.
He turned around in surprise — a bit ashamed that he had been caught staring at a building for so long — and found a tramp sitting a little way off along the edge of the street. His clothes were in tatters, and it seemed like he hadn’t taken a bath in years. His long hair and beard had become matted with oil, dirt, and dead skin cells. His frail frame shook with every word he said. Even from afar, Sanjib could realise that he was inebriated by the intonations of his voice.
“Get outta hereee!” He shouted again. “What’re you doing standing and staring in the middle of the streeeetttt!”
Sanjib’s face filled with disgust. He felt an overwhelming sense of aversion towards the tramp. He quickly turned away from him and walked towards the new apartment.
Beyond the apartment was Anil’s house, and Sanjib had half expected to find his friend at home. It was, after all, a Sunday evening. So, chances were higher than usual.
But he was taken by surprise when he found Anil’s house barely standing at all. One of the walls had completely crumbled, and the rest were ready to follow suite. The entire plot had become a garbage heap with dogs and crows roamed around ravenously in search of leftovers. Nature had already started reclaiming the land and the dilapidated building was covered with creepers and crawlers.
The juxtaposition of the dazzling new apartment and the crumbling old house in such close proximity had a great effect on Sanjib’s mind and he stood dumbfounded in front of his friend’s former residence.
“Sanjib?” A second voice broke out in the background. “Is that you?”
There was uncertainty in the voice, but it sounded very familiar.
Sanjib’s brain had already started connecting the dots, and by the time he turned around, he had matched the voice with a face from his past.
“Bimal kaku[1]!” He nearly shouted with delight. “How are you?”
The warm and welcoming smile of Bimal Das felt very soothing to Sanjib’s eyes.
“I am fine, Sanjib.” The man replied with a touch of warmth and emotion. “How big you’ve grown! It’s been such a long time since I last saw you!”
Sanjib embraced his Bimal kaku lovingly.
Bimal Das used to own a grocery shop in the neighbourhood, and he had always been very fond of all the kids in the locality. He often used to give them free snacks below the counter, and invited them to his house whenever there was an occasion.
“Come,” Bimal led Sanjib by his arm. “We’ll sit and talk in my house.”
The next half an hour was spent in fond recollection.
Sanjib leant that Bimal’s shop was not running very smoothly ever since the advent of online shopping. His sons, however, had all gotten jobs outside the state, and they regularly sent him money to ensure he never lacked the basic amenities required to live a modest life. They had also suggested that he close the shop and stay with them, but Bimal had always felt a strong affection towards his shop and refused to shut it down.
He opened his shop regularly, sat behind the counter like old times, and spent most of the time chatting with the retired people of the locality.
“You see Sanjib, I will continue running the shop as long as my body permits,” he concluded with a defiant tone.
Sanjib looked admiringly at his Bimal kaku. He had aged significantly, but his vigour and liveliness were worthy of praise.
“Bimal kaku,” Sanjib spoke apprehensively. “What happened to Anil? His house is in ruins.”
A pall of gloom suddenly descended on Bimal’s smiling face. He looked down towards the floor and sat silently.
Sanjib’s heart sank. With each passing moment, his mind grew heavier with anxiety.
When Bimal started speaking again, Sanjib braced himself for the worst.
“Around five years after you left,” Bimal spoke softly. “Anil lost his mother — who was his biggest well-wisher and who loved him the most in the world.”
“Anil was heartbroken,” he continued.
“Still, he had his father to look after him, guide him, and reign in his emotions. The father-son duo clung onto each other and battled the storms of adversity. Anil gradually recovered from the shock and tried his best to live his life to the fullest.
“But alas. The fates had marked him as a child of misfortune. Five years later, his father passed away as well. Anil was all alone.
“Although all of us, his neighbours, tried our best to console him and help him in his time of need, he never recovered from this second shock. He left his house, started roaming about the streets aimlessly, got drunk, and all but lost his mind. We tried numerous times to bring him back to his senses, but it was not to be. Anil would be absent for weeks at an end, and then suddenly, one morning, we would find him sleeping unceremoniously near the edge of the main road.
“Those of us who felt sorry for him gave him food and clothes from time to time. While he ate and drank to sustain himself, he rarely touched the clothes. After a few years, he stopped recognising us completely. He just came and went as he pleased.”
Sanjib couldn’t believe his ears. Every word that Bimal spoke appeared to drive a nail through his heart. He felt an indescribable pain and sadness for his friend.
“Coincidentally,” Bimal continued morosely. “Anil is here now.”
“He came a couple of days ago. Just this afternoon, I found him sitting and blabbering at the intersection. I gave him some food and water. He was quite drunk. His clothes were in tatters, and he looked more dead than alive. Oh, how it pained me to see him in such a condition.”
Bimal covered his face to hide the tears that flooded his eyes.
Sanjib jolted upright, as if struck by lightning. His mind had already raced half an hour back into the past.
He recalled the hoarse voice that had interrupted his day dream.
He recalled the countenance of the tramp that had disgusted him so much.
He brought forth every feature of that haggard body in front of his mind’s eye. The unkempt hair and beard, the tattered clothes, the frail frame.
His friend had spoken to him after twenty years. And he had turned and walked away disgusted. His friend, who probably had a bright future as a cricketer or a swimmer, but was reduced to nothingness. His friend, who had lost his sanity thanks to the cruel workings of fate.
The image of the modern apartment and the crumbling house flashed in front of Sanjib’s eyes. He was the modern apartment, shining and well established in life. Anil was the crumbing house, battling against insanity and counting his days.
In the face of this incomprehensible truth, the contrast seemed even more cruel.
Sanjib sat still. His vision had become blurry and his cheeks were hot with the stream of tears that flowed down like water from a dam.
At the intersection, Anil was still sitting on the road, speaking gibberish, and cursing anyone who passed the street.
Sayan Sarkar was born and raised in Kolkata. He is a passionate reader and lifelong learner who spends his leisure time immersed in books and new ideas.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.
For 30 years, Mr. Roy had been a professor of mathematics at a university in Kolkata.
At 65, he had grown tired of the fast-paced and boisterous city life. He never married and had no close relatives in the city. Therefore, he never had any attachments to the city.
A few months before his retirement, he had heard of an old British-era bungalow in a village in the district of Bankura.
Mr. Roy visited the location and immediately fell in love with the place. The two-storeyed bungalow stood near the outskirts of the village, very close to the forest. The other houses in the village were a little further away, and it took around 10 minutes to reach the nearest house on foot. A peepul and a banyan tree flanked the back portion of the bungalow, behind which lay a large pond. The forest began from the other end of the pond. Numerous rows of teak, sal, mahua, and arjun trees stood almost shoulder to shoulder, creating a pleasant view for the human eye.
After inspecting the bungalow and speaking with the owner, Mr. Roy finalised the deal and completed the associated formalities promptly. He decided to employ the existing caretaker as his daily help. The caretaker lived just 15 minutes from the bungalow with his family.
Mr. Roy had already sent some of his belongings to the bungalow before his retirement, and on the 15th of April, he moved permanently to this place with the rest of his items. The date was significant – 15th April was the Bengali New Year, or Poila Baisakh. Mr. Roy had specifically chosen the beginning of the new year to start this new phase in his life.
Upon his arrival on the 15th, he found a small crowd in front of his bungalow. Many of the locals had come to welcome him to their village. He invited all of them into the bungalow and spent a considerable amount of time interacting with them. The crowd thinned around noon until only the caretaker was left. His name was Samir, a man in his mid-40s.
“Samir, please give me something to eat. I am famished,” Mr. Roy said, getting ready for his bath.
“Yes, Dada! I will prepare your lunch within half an hour,” Samir replied, heading towards the kitchen.
After a long and refreshing bath, Mr. Roy got dressed and approached his bedroom window to look outside. He found that the banyan and peepul trees were quite close to his window and obstructed most of the view. Some of the branches almost touched the window as if trying to claw their way into the house. He saw a lot of birds on the trees, chirping and hopping from branch to branch. As he looked down, he suddenly noticed a young boy of around 10. The little boy was sitting on a branch of the banyan tree and munching on an apple.
“Hey! What are you doing there? You’ll get hurt if you fall!” Mr. Roy shouted with a look of apprehension.
The boy looked up and saw Mr. Roy’s worried face. He smiled from ear to ear in response and jumped down from the branch like a trapeze artist.
“Don’t worry, Kaku[1]! I have a habit of climbing this tree,” he said with a mischievous smile and disappeared around the corner.
Hearing Mr. Roy’s shouts, Samir came up from the kitchen, just in time to see the little boy run away.
“That’s my son, Sukumar! He’s a very mischievous boy, Dada[2]! He runs around the village all day after returning from school. He climbs trees like a monkey. This spot is his favourite. He must climb the banyan tree at least once every day,” Samir confessed.
“I see,” replied Mr. Roy. “But don’t you think these trees are a little too close to the window? This is the only room in the house facing the forest, but I can’t see anything because of these two trees. And here I was thinking of sitting in front of this window and enjoying a view of the forest.”
“Yes, Dada! These trees are quite close to the house. You can even consider them to be a part of the house. It’s said that they are more than a hundred years old!” Samir informed Mr. Roy.
“Hmm. I see!” he remarked.
The next morning, Mr. Roy went out to explore the village after breakfast. He returned around noon, huffing and puffing in the summer heat. After his bath, he called Samir to his bedroom.
“Samir, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” he said, his eyes fixed on the trees outside. “You see, I’d been thinking about those trees since yesterday. You must admit that the view of the forest beyond the pond is breathtaking. But those damned trees are in the way! I can’t see anything at all! So, I’ve decided to get rid of them.
“Usually, I’m against the felling of trees, but I must make an exception this time. I talked to a woodcutter in the village bazaar today. He agreed to do the job for me. However, he already had some assignments for the next three days, so he’ll be coming on Sunday.”
Samir stood aghast. He couldn’t believe his ears.
“Dada…you wish to cut down the trees? But they’re a part of this house! They’ve been here long before I came to this house. You can simply cut some of the branches to give you a better view. You don’t need to cut down the entire trees!” he said, visibly emotional.
Mr. Roy stared at Samir for a few seconds before giving his reply.
“I’d thought about pruning the trees as well. But that wouldn’t solve the problem. The branches would grow back over time, and I’d have to continue pruning them every now and then. It’s better to just be done with them entirely. Besides, this village has an abundance of trees all around. It won’t cause anyone harm if I cut just two. No, no. I’ve made up my mind.”
“Okay, Dada… As you wish!” Samir turned away dejectedly.
“Samir,” Mr. Roy called him back, his tone much softer than before.
“I know you love the trees, and your son loves them too. I’ll build him a playground where he can enjoy himself.”
Samir nodded slowly and headed down towards the kitchen.
Mr. Roy felt a pang of guilt in his heart, but his desire to enjoy the view from his bedroom far outweighed his feeling of guilt. As he walked towards the window, he found Sukumar playing among the branches of the trees like the day before.
They’ll feel bad now. But time will heal everything eventually, he thought to himself.
*
Samir was a little late arriving the next day.
“What happened? Is everything all right?” enquired Mr. Roy, a little upset as well as worried.
“Sukumar is not well, Dada. He went swimming in the pond yesterday and caught a terrible cold. He’s had a fever since last night and couldn’t sleep a wink. I was finally able to put him to sleep in the morning. I’m sorry for being late,” Samir explained. His face looked worn out.
“Poor boy! If you need medicines, you can come to me, you know. I’ve been practicing homeopathy for quite some time,” Mr. Roy responded.
Samir nodded his head.
“You can go home early today after preparing dinner,” Mr. Roy added after a little pause. “Your son’s health comes first!”
“Thank you, Dada!” Samir said gratefully.
He took his leave around 5 PM, two hours before his usual time.
Mr. Roy read a book until nine o’clock, had his dinner, and then went to sleep. He kept his bedroom window open for better air circulation. The weather outside was oppressively hot and humid. There was an unnatural stillness in the air, with no hint of a breeze whatsoever.
*
Mr. Roy was woken up by the chirping of the birds outside his window at the crack of dawn. As he gathered his senses and sat up in bed, he received quite a shock – the entire bedroom floor was strewn with dead leaves of peepul and banyan. They had reached as far as the door, which was quite some distance from the open window.
But how’s this possible? There wasn’t the slightest breeze last night! Even if there was a breeze late at night, how have the leaves fallen only on the floor and not on my bed? Mr. Roy thought to himself.
He couldn’t make head or tail of the situation.
The thing that worried him the most was the fact that all the leaves were withered and dead. Not a single fresh leaf was in sight! He collected the leaves and threw them out the window before Samir arrived, not wanting him to know about this incident.
When Samir came to work, he tried to act normally. He learnt that Sukumar was better, but still very weak. His mother was taking care of him that day.
The day passed quite uneventfully. Mr. Roy went out for a stroll through the village and returned before lunch. He took a nap in the afternoon and spent the evening reading. By the time Samir left at eight o’clock, he had finished his dinner and was sitting in front of his bedroom window smoking a cigar. As he gazed outside, the silhouette of the trees was the only thing visible to him.
The night was quite hot, and there was still no sign of a breeze. His mind wandered to the incident of the morning, and he tried in vain to find a logical explanation to satisfy himself. He decided to close the window that night to be on the safe side.
At 10 PM, Mr. Roy locked the window, double-checked it, and went to bed. As he dozed off, he silently hoped everything would be all right the next morning.
*
But alas! He woke up to a similar scene the next morning. Dead leaves were strewn across the floor. That day, he even found some leaves on his bed and his body. He jumped up to the window and found it locked—just as he’d left it the night before. His face turned pale, and he felt a chill run down his spine. As he opened the window, his eyes fell on the two trees staring back at him ominously.
Are the trees sending me a message and warning me against cutting them? But how’s that possible? Am I really supposed to believe that some tree spirits are trying to threaten me? That’s simply absurd!
Mr. Roy tried to strengthen his mind. It was Friday, and the woodcutter would be arriving on Sunday to do his job. He just had to endure two more nights. He decided that he would ask Samir to stay with him for the remaining two nights.
Happy with the resolution, he then proceeded to pick up the leaves and dump them out the window.
When Samir arrived, Mr. Roy learned that his son was much better. Relieved, he asked Samir to stay with him for the next two nights, citing that he wasn’t feeling well and might need assistance at night. Samir agreed and took his leave after lunch to inform his family of his overnight stay.
Mr. Roy took a little nap in the afternoon and read the paper till evening. There was a forecast of a thunderstorm at night—what the locals called Kalbaisakhi, or what is referred to as a Nor’wester.
Samir returned around 6 PM and prepared some tea for both of them. He sat on the floor of his master’s bedroom and sipped tea, chatting with him about various topics.
Mr. Roy felt his confidence returning in the presence of another human being.
After dinner, Samir made his bed on the floor and waited for his master to go to bed. Mr. Roy instructed him to close the window just in case it started raining after they fell asleep. They conversed a little before eventually drifting off.
Mr. Roy’s sleep was disturbed by a series of shrill noises. As he woke up with a start, he found the room engulfed in pitch-black darkness. He heard the rain pattering against the closed window. A storm was brewing outside. The fan had stopped moving.
There was a power cut.
But all this was quite normal. The only abnormal thing in this atmosphere was the continuous chirping of birds outside his window! It felt as if dozens of birds were pressed against the window, chirping incessantly.
Mr. Roy had never had such an experience before. The avian cacophony created a haunting ambience.
“Samir! Samir! Wake up!” he shouted at the top of his voice.
Samir jolted up in his bed.
“Dada? What’s wrong?” he asked, unable to grasp the situation.
“Birds! Why are so many birds chirping outside my window?” Mr. Roy panicked.
Samir rubbed his eyes in confusion. “Birds? Where? I can’t hear anything!” he said after processing everything around him.
“What do you mean you can’t hear anything? There are dozens of birds chirping outside! Have you gone deaf?!” Mr. Roy responded, his voice shaking with fear.
“Dada, are you alright? I can’t hear any birds at all. The only things I hear are the sound of the rain and the whistling of the wind. Maybe you are mistaking the wind for birds,” Samir tried to explain, visibly confused at the delirium of his master.
“Impossible! That’s not the wind! That’s the sound of birds! I can’t stand it anymore!” Mr. Roy desperately put both hands against his ears.
“It’s those damned trees! They won’t leave me alone!” he shouted like a madman.
“Dada! Calm down, I’m here with you. Nothing will happen.” Samir got up from his bed and approached his master.
But by this time, Mr. Roy had fallen silent. He had fainted.
*
When he finally opened his eyes, it was morning.
“Thank God you’re awake! How do you feel now?” enquired Samir with a worried expression.
“What happened? Did I pass out?” Mr. Roy blurted out, still quite confused.
“Yes, Dada! Last night, you were shouting about hearing birds. You passed out shortly after that episode. I was quite worried. I couldn’t go out to fetch anyone in the storm, so I waited till morning. Should I call a doctor?” Samir asked, still quite concerned.
“No, I’m fine. No need to call a doctor. I must’ve been dreaming. Why don’t you make some tea for both of us?” Mr. Roy replied slowly.
As Samir went to the kitchen, he sat up in his bed. Although he had told Samir that he might have been dreaming of the bird sounds, he knew that he had been wide awake. He had definitely heard the chirping of birds.
It must be the trees! What are they trying to tell me? That dozens of birds will be forced to abandon their nests if I cut them down? What should I do then?
He got out of bed and moved towards the window, deep in thought. As he looked outside, he found Sukumar playing near the peepul tree. How happy he looked!
A smile appeared across Mr. Roy’s face as he watched the child enjoying himself.
“Here’s your tea, Dada,” he heard Samir’s voice behind him.
“Samir, your son is here. He’s playing with the trees again,” Mr. Roy said, taking up his cup and sipping the hot tea.
“Yes, Dada. He missed his friends for the last few days. So, he came here early today to catch up.” Samir laughed.
Mr. Roy’s smile broadened.
“Samir, I’ve decided not to cut the trees,” he said after a moment’s silence. “As you said, they are a part of the house. Your son loves them too. Maybe I’ll get used to this view after all!”
Samir stared at his master, overwhelmed with joy.
“That’s great news, Dada! Sukumar will be very happy to hear that!” he said, wiping away a tear from his eye.
“Very well then, go home and get some rest. Come back in the afternoon. I have some reading to do.” Mr. Roy got up and shook Samir’s hand.
“Okay, Dada!” Samir replied, getting ready to go.
As he went out of the main gate, Sukumar ran to greet him.
“What did he say?” the 10-year-old boy asked anxiously.
“He has decided against cutting the trees,” assured Samir.
The boy’s face lit up. He started dancing around in joy.
Samir put his hand inside his pocket and took out an audio cassette player.
“Here, take it.” He handed it over to his son.
“I never thought your cassette recording of chirping birds from the zoo would be of any use. But it was of great service last night. You should’ve seen Mr. Roy’s face when the recording started playing outside the window. It looked like he’d seen a ghost. It was difficult for me to keep a straight face!” Samir broke off into laughter.
Sukumar quickly joined him.
“What about the dead leaves? You should give me some credit for that! That was my idea!” he declared, looking for his father’s approval.
“Of course! That was a fantastic idea,” Samir replied.
“That’s what sowed the seed of doubt in his mind. Little did he know that I’ve always had spare keys to the rooms in the house. With the keys, it was child’s play to get into his room and spread the leaves at night.”
“Yes, we did, son. Although it’s never good to fool another person, we did it for the greater good. Those trees are a part of the history of this village, and I will never let them be harmed!” Samir spoke, his voice quivering with emotion.
Sukumar squeezed his father’s hand tightly.
“I will protect the trees with you, Dad! I promise!” he replied with tears in his eyes.
Sayan Sarkar was born and raised in Kolkata. He is a passionate reader and lifelong learner who spends his leisure time immersed in books and new ideas.
.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
