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A Tiny Piece of Homeland

Narrative by Kallol Lahiri: Translation from Bengali by V. Ramaswamy

What if someone were to ask me, where is your desh[1]? Quite naturally, I would reply, “Why? It’s India, isn’t it?” If I were to ask my snack-vendor, Ramesh, “Where is your desh, Ramesh?” As he weighs out fifty grams of hot peanuts to mix with roasted chira[2], he’ll say, “It’s Samstipur, Dada.” Isn’t India your country then? Ramesh would give me an exasperated look as he stirs the chira.

There was more of a crowd at his shop at this time in the evening. The train coming from Howrah drops people returning from work at the station. Many of them then walk home chewing peanuts, gram and muri[3] on the way. Ramesh’s hands work like a machine then. Handing the paper packet to me hurriedly, he says, “Arrey, all of us belong to India. Does one have to say that separately? My village is in Samstipur. Our house is there. I feel happy when I go there, Dada[4]. Does everyone have a desh like that?” That’s correct, not everyone has a desh, or a village. The desh which actually does not refer to the state called India – a place which does not shackle you with law and order, for which one does not have to prove one’s patriotism at every step. The desh which actually becomes sujala suphala shasya shyamala, abundantly watered, fertile and lush green with crops, and makes your heart wistful. Which beckons you to return home. That desh and the state are not the same. And so, while Ramesh refers to his village as desh out of an attachment, I cannot find any place with which I am similarly attached. Because I do not have a village like his. I only have a concrete, solid state.

There are many places to go on a holiday to, scattered all over. Arbeliya, Noyagram, Shibhati. But my own village? Which is one’s desh, in Ramesh’s language? As soon as I feel wistful, the bank of a pond, an earthen veranda, Orion in the night sky. The village beneath whose soil the ribs and bones of fourteen generations lie hidden, with which there is an umbilical tie? I cannot find one even after a lot of thought. The April sky feels heavy and stifling atop the attic in my Uttarpara. One can no longer see even a sprinkling of stars. It is only the lights of the teeming apartments that sparkle far and near.

Although Dada or I do not have a desh, or village, like Ramesh does, my Baba’s elder sister, Boro Moni, had a desh, a village from where she had to come away — almost all of a sudden, without any real preparation. But from time-to-time, Moni used to go off to a desh all by herself — especially when the first raw mangoes of summer arrived from the market; some special vegetables — banana flowers, banana stems, figs, spinach of taro. Observing those, and assessing their quality, she was not very satisfied. Even though she did not say anything, she seemed to be lost somewhere. She was not easily available then. She was going around, wandering, right in front of us, and talking and yet it was as if she was somewhere else. She had to be called twice for her to respond. She forgot to add salt to the cooking. She sat fixedly for a long time in a meditating posture as if she had nothing to do with this bank or the other bank, with any shore. She seemed to have left the boat of her body and become immersed in the ocean of attainment. But it was also true that even though all of us were around her, Moni did not really have anyone.

Moni was the solitary resident of a piece of desh where others other than those she led by hand were forbidden entry. You would not be able to enter the main door of that house even if you tried a hundred times. Ordinarily, Moni was busy all day attending to work. She did this and did that. If there was no work at hand, or if it was all done, she turned over the clothes put out to dry in the sun.  She washed the baskets, floor-seats, and utensils with water, and left them face-down. After water had drained out of those, she put them back in place. When all these tasks were completed, if there was time, she broke coal into dust. She smeared lumps of coal dust with rice starch and made briquettes. If it had turned dark by then, Moni lit the evening lamp. And then it was time to cook dinner.

Who did Moni do all this work for? For a family — the family, which was actually not hers, but her brother’s. This never occurred to her. And even if it did, there was nothing to be done. The ambit of the narrative knew a bit about all these unspoken, unpronounced things. The characters around her knew. Family existed for this person and yet did not exist — living in a home and yet not having a home. The agony of not having a desh although she had a country – it was named Moni. That was why Moni worked without a word. She chatted with us. She used to talk to no one in particular. She filled up her spare time in her own ways.

Moni used to do various other things. If someone in the neighbourhood got a stiff neck, or got hurt on his leg, or had a bad dream just before dawn, or if a strapping boy wet his bed in his sleep, Moni performed faith healing with ritually consecrated water and oil. She used to recite mantras in whispers into ears. Blow on the head. She used to massage a stiff neck and undo the crick. She used to run her hand over an ear and soothe a piercing earache.

Dada used to say that Moni knew magic — the magic with which Moni floated oil in water and blew, muttered to herself in darkness. It wasn’t just that, so many familiar people as well as strangers came and poured out their heart’s woes. Moni listened. She chanted while counting on a finger. Blew on the head. She had no ishta devata[5], performed no pujas, had no excessive restraint when it came to conduct or judgement.

“What do you say as you blow, Moni?” I had once asked her. Widening her eyes, she had said, “All that is not for your ears.”

Why not? What if I did hear? As she waved the palmyra-leaf hand-fan over my head, she had said, “A sonless man will have no sons. The destitute will not gain wealth. The homeless will not have a home. He has to become completely alone. All his life.” Had Moni become alone after learning the mantras? Why did she learn such mantras then? Who taught her? Moni scrambled up hurriedly. The power is back. Baba’s students too had left a long while back. The newly purchased wall-clock chimed ten o’clock. A shotoronchi[6] would now be spread lengthwise on the long veranda. The radio would be on.

Everyone would listen as they ate. They would talk. After that, each one would go off to sleep as they chose. Like every day, another day would come to an end. But would it really end? If one woke up in the dead of night, wouldn’t Moni be audible? Either sitting in the veranda, or while asleep, she would be blabbering. With whom? Apparently, Moni used to have a lot of people. They were not visible. They were like shadows. Who used to crowd around Moni? Were they the memories of old days left behind? Or were they from the present? Those for whose stories Moni had to sit late at night with her legs stretched out on the small veranda beneath the patch of sky? Hearing all this gave many people the creeps. But I was not the least bit frightened of Moni. Tell me, who would pat you affectionately on the back in the way she did? Who would fan you with the hand-fan when there was a power cut, recite mantras and blow on the hand before an exam so that an entire essay on a cow could flow out of the pen?

After the mistress of the Bhattacharjee household next door took ritually consecrated water for her grandson and gave five rupees, who would immediately order milk from the Haringhata milk supply? The milk with which rabri[7] would be prepared according to Thamma[8]’s recipe. The entire household would wait in front of the stove for the thick crust to form over the milk set to boil on a low flame.

Moni never had any possessions. You could say she didn’t want any. So did Moni have no wants, no dreams? Except for the pinch of tobacco on the tip of her finger which she put into her mouth? I don’t know. I only know the pull of the house which people returned to. They worked extremely hard all day long. With the money from that hard work, they sat together at the end of the day to eat, chat, and the joys and sorrows of domestic life fell gently around the people, like drops of dew. Although all that kept Moni enclosed, Moni was very far away from this world of illusion. We knew, yes, even at that very young age, we knew, that actually Moni had no one. No home, no husband, no children, no family, and for that matter, no desh either.

Even after much searching, I could not find a picture of Boro Moni by herself. The pictures I had were all group photos. With everyone. No solo pictures. Perhaps such a picture of Bijonbala was not even supposed to be there. And so, I had to cut and crop and take out Moni from the group of people. Did Baba’s Yashica camera never find his elder sister Bijon alone then? Or had he and yet never felt the urge to put her in a frame? Or was it that after having begun my archaeological excavation so many years later, I was unable to find Boro Moni? After all, I could not print all the negatives. Some had got lost. Many more had been destroyed. Yet, Thamma, Handa are all there in whatever there is, so why is there no photo of Moni by herself? She sometimes found a place, like an extra, within the frame, in a corner, amidst a tangled, jostling group of people. Why had Thamma and Dadu [9] given such a name to their first-born? After all, “Bijon” meant alone. Devoid of people around her. How did a person’s name match her life?

In truth, she was alone all her life. Although she had her Baba, Ma, and siblings around her.  Her husband’s home after she got married. And yet Bijon had to return to her mother. She did not get to live with her husband. Why not? Did her husband not like her? Had there been a quarrel? Had they driven her out?  After all, much later, after coming to this side of the border, Moni had to wipe off her sindur[10], discard her conch-shell, iron and coral bangles. She had to wear a widow’s garb. Some people had apparently searched for the house and conveyed the news of Moni’s husband’s demise. How on earth did those who never kept in touch with a person come to dress her in window’s garb? Even after all these days, when I think about all this, I feel astonished.

I want to know about a lot of things. But not everything can be known. The youngsters at home were not supposed to know everything. With whatever is whispered, and more than that, with whatever one hears, they create an imaginary world. Even if there are smiles on the faces of the people in those worlds, those who roam around the house, it is understood that they are sorrowful for some unknown reason. Even if they never said anything, they went around hiding something in the depths of their hearts which they would never tell anyone. Like Indir Thakrun[11], sitting in the terrace of Sarbajaya’s kitchen, even if she asks in gasps for some water, she would never be able to convey her immense hunger.

Gazing at the plate of rice, her eyes would rain tears. And yet, she would drink a bit of water from the pot, sprinkle the rest on the saplings in the corner of the courtyard and go far away to the bamboo thicket, hoping to count the coins for the final crossing. If Sarbajaya had wanted, could she not have called Indir Thakrun that day? What would have happened if she had fed the old woman a couple of mouthfuls of her own share of rice? Sarbajaya did not perceive at that moment the contentment derived from feeding a starving person. As if it had all been masked by an all-devouring hunger. Was it really that? Or could Sarbajaya herself see that it was her own future sitting opposite near the steps of the terrace? A feverish body. The evening train too had gone by. She thought someone called out to her, “Ma,” from the door. After all, it had been a long time since she had heard being called “Ma”.

Was it Apu? Have you come, Apu? She rushed and opened the main door and saw there was no one anywhere. Infinite emptiness.  Sarbajaya had to go away forever, all alone, from a desolate house in a completely unknown village. Indir Thakrun had at least been found lying in the bamboo grove by her small niece and nephew, Durga-Apu. None of Sarbajaya’s close kin found her. Apu had come and seen an empty homestead. His Ma was absent. The Ma he had learnt to manage by sending letters. Apu had not left behind any token of memory of his Ma in that house. There was nothing to speak of in Sarbajaya’s existence, except for a bundle, like with Indir Thakrun.

There was a huge crowd in the field beside the Ganga that day. A mobile cinema van had come from the Information and Culture Department of the Government of West Bengal to screen a film. They came from time to time. They screened this and that. The government wanted to make people aware by screening educational films. Before that, the dadas and didis [12]of the neighbourhood gathered together and sang, “Ora amader gaan gaite daey na … shilpi songrami Paul Robeson, They don’t let us sing … artist, fighter, Paul Robeson.” We too nodded our heads and kept the rhythm. Once the tarpaulin sheet was spread on the ground, I tried to find a good place in the first row.

Dada came and whispered in my ear, “You watch films from the rear, stupid. No one sees it from the front.” I raised my thumb and showed him a banana. Ghenchu. Nothing. He was jealous because I had found a good place. He went to the rear. Moni asked people on the two sides to move and sat down beside me. She covered my tiny feet with the shawl around her so that mosquitoes wouldn’t bite me. The field was full of people by then. Was a film screening a trivial thing? In the time I am talking about, except for one or two people, nobody in the neighbourhood possessed a television set. No telephone. There were power cuts all of a sudden. As soon as it went off, the elderly uncles of the neighbourhood sitting in the roak, the spot where they hung out, would laugh and say, “There goes Jyoti Babu.” That was why a generator set had been rented as a special arrangement.

Indir Thakrun was now on the white screen beside the Ganga. She was taking something furtively from Sarbajaya’s kitchen. Moni seemed to huddle up and stiffen herself all of a sudden. She had only recently begun to lose her health then. She brought her face close to my ear, and said, “Shall we go home? Come.” What was this! Why did Moni want to go back home? After all, I had seen so many plays with Moni before this. Seen jatras[13]. Seen Tarun Opera’s “Ami Subhas Bolchhi[14]”. When Shantigopal comes on stage in Subhas costume to the accompaniment of tumultuous orchestral music and lighting, and says, “Give me blood, and I shall give you independence”, I have seen a few thousand people break into explosive applause. Moni had folded her hands in pranam[15], and said, “Please come back. Join the two countries together.”

Moni believed that if Subhas had been there, the Partition would not have taken place. Moni would never have had to leave her village, leave her desh, and come away to this side of the border. Moni loved seeing jatra performances and plays so much, so why did the very same Moni not want to watch the film today? She had seen plenty of films before this — how, thanks to the boon of the king of ghosts, Goopy and Bag[16] had travelled to so many countries, eaten so many kinds of food, punished the wayward king. For that matter, finally they got married to princesses too. Indir Thakrun had just been caught red-handed on the screen in front by Sarbajaya. There was unease on her face. She was desperate to hide herself. And Moni’s eyes were streaming tears then. For whom? For herself? Or was it for those who stayed around like shadows out of compassion and fondness?

Moni felt like eating a lot of things in her final days — all that she had never eaten in her life. What a fierce hunger she had! How would a household that was itself hand-to-mouth obtain so much food? And yet Baba tried very hard. Towards the very end, she took a fancy to eating fish. How she loved to eat fish.

On the other hand, could a widow in a brahmin household eat fish? Nothing would remain of caste and religion! Harm would befall the family. Food then consisted of rice provided by the ration shop, a vegetable preparation, milk that was either available or not, and after lunch, it was the same at dinner, with ruti[17]. What would so many people eat in between? And where on earth would they get that from? In addition, there were, of course, the ekadashi and various other occasions for fasting. There was ambubachi [18] once a year. And of course, many people in the neighbourhood used to give out one or other kind of food in order to earn merit for themselves. Relatives too either sent money, or fruits and suchlike. But that did not benefit the widows in the household at all. However, there were no limits or bounds to the joy of kids. An abundance of fruits, sweetmeats, and chire, muri.

Moni complied with all the strictures. But in her final days, everything was turning topsy-turvy. Not only was she devoured by an all-devouring hunger, it also pushed her to greater ill health. It so happened that Moni began to eat fish furtively. After all, there was a count of the number of fish pieces on the table at home. Ma knew everything. She used to move aside her share of the fish in such a way that it seemed to be extra. Moni used to eat that bit of fish in secret. I had covertly espied one afternoon how contentedly she ate that. Even now, when a lot of fish is brought home, I remember Moni. A person sitting with her back turned around and cautiously eating fish, averting everyone’s gaze.

During tarpan[19], after making offerings of water to one’s deceased male ancestors, it is the turn to appease their wives with offerings of water. And after that come those whom the one offering the tarpan wishes to make offerings to. Dada made ritual water offerings to Moni every time. To Handa. He made offerings of water to all the people who had no one else to do that for them. Those who truly never received water when they were dying. I pour that water with black sesame seeds floating on it into a flowerpot.

The morning of Mahalaya turns into something different instantly. Standing in the middle of the sunny terrace of Dada’s flat, I like to think, what if Moni was around today? If Handa was? And Baba? Who would sit where with their back turned in this sunny terrace then? Who would put mangoes for the kashundi [20]out to dry, and where? Who would stock freshly made paper packets from the teashop and the damp copy of the last volume of the collected works of Rabindranath Tagore?

Following Moni’s return to her own mother a few years after her marriage, she never returned to her husband’s house. And so, when everyone was coming away after being uprooted from their desh, Moni’s Ma was unable to leave her own daughter behind. She had brought her along too with her. Or else how would we have got Boro Moni? Eaten her mango-mustard kashundi? Who would have taken Dada and me to a house in a village on the nights when the power went off after we had finished our studies, to an earthen courtyard, beneath a tulsi pedestal, to the round-the-clock devotional chanting of the name of Hari, the sacred offering there of rice in a clay bowl? Who would hold the hands of the two of us and walk along that dew-drenched path on the bank of the pond and stop beneath the falsa tree there?

The village floating in the early morning sunlight that we had never laid eyes on which Moni conjured up on the nights of power cuts, was Moni’s tiny piece of desh. The desh Moni left behind to never be joyful again. Was it because she was sorrowful that Moni told us stories like they were fairy tales? We used to fall asleep as we listened to those stories. A beautiful village stayed awake all night long right in front of our eyes. The village that did not belong to Ramesh, or to Dada or me, but only to Moni; the village from which, under the cover of nocturnal darkness, three women had crossed two rivers, countless villages and a vast expanse.

The place they arrived at, where they were eventually able to stand on their own feet, was then another country. A place that belonged to other people. And people became refugees in their own birthplace, their homeland, on their own soil, who, having been rendered surplus, made a fresh start in the hope of survival.

Many years later, when I was able to meet all those people, they had lost their health and reached the final stages of their lives. And yet, such élan vital. They had guarded and protected Dada and me with that infinite and inexhaustible vitality. Not just that – the narrative that had been enacted before us over a long time, even after crossing so many winters, summers, rainy seasons, autumns, late-autumns, has not faded; rather, like Baba’s Yashica, it remains hanging in the form of a photo-frame in the inner sanctum of one’s mind. And it is because it’s hanging that the residence in Bally seems to me, from time to time, like a fairy tale. And those days become Thakumar Jhuli, a grandmother’s bag of stories.

In the kitchen of the Bally residence, something special is being cooked. Ma is in the foreground. Moni is behind her. Half of the rolling pin and board for ruti in the middle is visible. Perhaps Ma had turned towards the door to do something in the middle of rolling out the rutis. One can’t make out what she is doing. Was she washing her atta-covered hands? Baba is on this side of the door. Looking through the lens of the Yashica, capturing very casually the door on the left and the wall on the right like a frame-within-frame.

Visible among the few items in the kitchen is the floor-seat. Moni seems to be in a hurry to remove something from the stove. Was someone supposed to come home that day? Or was it just like that, all of a sudden? Was something special really being cooked? Or was it merely ruti and soyabean curry? Ma is radiant with her smile even amidst all that. The moment comes to a standstill right there. But the stream of life flows ceaselessly past that. The day of that photograph and the present day seem to be separated by the vast distance of a nebula. Yet, was it not along that very path that an endless dialogue unfolded within the mind? The very dialogue whose echoes are woven into this piece of writing, all those unprinted negatives, piles of letters and the weight of memories of a long time ago.

Towards the end, Moni had become one with the bed. You could not distinguish Moni from the bed. She used to scream for food all the time — food which she could not digest at all. And so, the whole bed used to get soiled seven or eight times a day. There was shit smeared all over her body, like bedsores, Ma used to clean up all by herself, with her own hands.

Dada and I were very small then. We were in merely two rooms. So many people. Gradually, Ma too began to fall ill with that kind of terrible, inhuman toil. Right next to us was Doctor Kisku’s dispensary — our Doctor Kakima[21]. She visited us so frequently and was so fond of us that she had become like a member of the household. She attended to Moni with much care for a long time. It was because she was our family physician that she had everyone’s details at her fingertips. She warned Baba, “If this sick person remains at home like this, everyone will fall ill.” Where would this sick person be taken then? Would a public hospital take her? They tried very hard. No assurance of getting admitted there was forthcoming. Who would admit a sick person who was on the verge of death? In the end, Doctor Kakima found a way, which remained a permanent witness to a heart-rending incident in our family. It was Doctor Kakima who arranged everything. Moni was left at Mother Teresa’s “Nirmal Hriday”.

Mother Teresa had established her Nirmal Hriday for all those people who had no one, who lay on the street and waited for their final day. Nirmal Hriday provided shelter to these dying people. They spent their last few days peacefully in the land of slumber. But, after all, Moni was not lying on the street. She had everyone — brother, sister-in-law, nephews, niece and various other relatives. And yet she had had to become an unidentified person without any family and enter Mother Teresa’s Nirmal Hriday.

Even today, it is as if I can clearly remember the day Moni left home. Ma bathed Moni and dressed her in a new sari. Moni’s favourite pulao and fish curry was cooked that day. Ma fed Moni. Dada and I were standing quietly beside her. Moni acted as if she was impatient to go to the hospital. For the last few days, she had driven everyone crazy saying she wanted to go to the hospital. She believed that she would get well as soon as she went there. And once she was well, she would go to her village. How would she go? Who would take her? That was not certain. Meanwhile, a yellow-coloured taxi had arrived in front of the house. Baba carried Moni in his arms and got into the taxi. Gora Kaka[22] as well.

Moni seemed to have shrunk somehow in Baba’s arms. She gaped wide-eyed. Dada and I were at the taxi window. Ma too came and stood behind. We were saying goodbye to Moni. The taxi engine started. We heard the sound of that. Did a stream of compassion finally flow from her eyes at that moment? Yes, Moni gaped at us in astonishment and wept. “Why are you crying, Moni?” Dada ran behind the taxi. I did too. The taxi was going along the G.T. Road, becoming more and more distant. Dada screamed out, “Why are you crying, Moni?”

No reply came wafting. Once the taxi went past the bend at Kablikutir, it was no longer visible. We too never saw Moni again after that. Within a week of being admitted to Nirmal Hriday, Moni had passed away. Where did she go? To that tiny piece of homeland? The village that she had dreamt of going to after returning from the hospital?

If ever I woke up in the dead of night, I used to keep my ears pricked – could I hear Moni’s voice? Talking to herself? No, I never heard anything. Once someone leaves, they don’t return. All of us seemed to become quiet somehow after that. Baba did not utter a single word to anyone for quite a few days. When we had to find a picture for the sradh[23] ceremony, it was taken from a group photograph and framed. When the purohit moshay [24]objected to fish being offered at a widow’s sradh, Ma had told him, “Isn’t the peace of the soul the law in that book of yours?”

He could not say anything. Dada and I carried that fish head in the ritual clay pot with the lump of rice and floated it in the Ganga and walked back without looking back even once. There was no longer anyone at home that day to return to for protection. Was there truly no one? After all these years, when I look back at that road, I realise there was. There was an earthen house, atulsi pedestal as well. There was a falsa tree at the bank of a pond. There was a village awash in the morning sunshine. And there was that tiny piece of homeland that belonged to Moni, which we never set eyes on, but only kept in our dreams, like Aladin’s amazing lamp.

(This is an excerpt from the ongoing translation of Baba’s Yashica Camera: A Photographic Memoir of a Refugee Family, by Kallol Lahiri. All the photographs have been provided by Kallol Lahiri.)

[1] Country

[2] Flattened rice

[3] Puffed rice

[4] Elder brother, a sign of respect here

[5] Particular God

[6] Floor rug

[7] Sweetened, thickened milk

[8] Grandma

[9] Grandfather

[10] Vermillion powder worn by married Hindu women. The conch-shell, iron and coral bangles are signs of being married among traditional Bengalis.

[11] Reference to Bibhuti Bhushon’s Pather Panchali ( Song of the Path,1929), later popularised with the film made by Satyajit Ray in 1955.

[12] Elder sisters

[13] Folktheare

[14] I am Subhash Speaking – refers to a play written by Sailesh Dey (1968), about Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose’s (born: 1897-1945) life and times.

[15] Obeisance

[16] Reference to Goopy Gyne Bagha Byne, 1969 Film by Satyajit Ray

[17] Flatbread or roti

[18] Ekadashi and ambubachi are fasts

[19] Prayers for the dead

[20] Mustard sauce often laced with raw mangoes

[21] Aunt

[22] uncle

[23] Funeral

[24] Priest

Kallol Lahiri teaches cinema, makes documentary films, writes screenplays for films, television and OTT series, and writes blogs of various flavours in between. He is the author of four novels, Gora Naxal (2017), Indubala Bhater Hotel (2020), 1990, A Love Story (2022) and Ghumiye Porar Aage (2024), and a memoir, Babar Yashica Camera (2021). He was awarded the Sadhana Sen Memorial prize in 2021 for the novels Gora Naxal and Indubala Bhater Hotel  by the magazine Bhumodhyosagor.

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V. Ramaswamy is a literary and nonfiction translator of voices from the margins. His translation of the novel, The Struggle, by Showkat Ali, was published in 2025.

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Categories
Stories

Shooting Dida

Story by Kallol Lahiri: Translation from Bengali by V. Ramaswamy

Kallol Lahiri

Kallol Lahiri teaches cinema, makes documentary films, writes screenplays for films, television and OTT series, and writes blogs of various flavours in between. He is the author of four novels, Gora Naxal (2017), Indubala Bhater Hotel (2020), 1990, A Love Story (2022) and Ghumiye Porar Aage (2024), and a memoir, Babar Yashica Camera (2021). He was awarded the Sadhana Sen Memorial prize in 2021 for the novels Gora Naxal and Indubala Bhater Hotel  by the magazine Bhumodhyosagor.

In memory of all the forgotten nameless actors and actresses of the world

If one woke up very early in the morning, the city looked different through this window. It seemed as if the city was encircled by three whole mountains. But actually, that wasn’t the case. Pray tell me, where would three mountains appear from in the middle of this city? Is this Darjeeling or Kalimpong! After all, these are all mountains of garbage. The garbage of the entire city has been brought here to create mountains. It has been given a mouthful of a name too, “Dhapa”. Sarala smiled inwardly. What did the word dhapa mean? Was it dhappa (meaning, bluff)? Perhaps Notu Babu would have said that had he been around.

“Can’t you see the torn clouds at the crest of the mountain?”

“O Notu Babu, that’s garbage.”

“So what if it’s garbage! Doesn’t it take on the appearance of a mountain and bluff us! Hey … play a tune in Behag on the flute … let me hear that.”

The flute would have sounded, together with the harmonium and tabla. Sarla would have advanced with small steps towards the middle of the stage. The light from the spotlight would have fallen on her. Afar, concealed by the wings, was Bani Babu, the prompter notebook in hand. And in that enchanting atmosphere, Sarla Debi gazes at the audience and begins singing.

Just that much. If she remembered any more, her mind would go awry. She would feel like just sitting and remembering all the tales from way back when. The morning would then be ruined. Wasn’t there a lot of work to be done! She had soaked two saris last night. And a bedsheet. The mosquito net was dirty too. All those had to be washed when it was time for water at the standpipe. She had to clean the house and then bathe. After that, all she had to do was boil a bit of rice and dal on the stove, and then she was done.

There had been plenty of days when Sarala had eaten only muri[1]both times. In this old age, she no longer felt like cooking just for herself. Nonetheless, if Notu Babu had been around, he would have gone to the market. He would surely have brought back tender pui spinach, pumpkin, fresh potatoes and the head of a carp fish. And said, “Here you are, why don’t you make some chyanchra[2] today, Sarala …” Or he would have gone to the market close to noon and brought back whatever fatty viscera of fish he got, and said, “Cook this, make a fish oil chochchori[3] with ground chillies.”

Sarala used to apply attar[4] on her body after her bath. Nizamuddin, the attarwala[5], used to bring it for her. All those days were of a different kind. Coloured in the hues of a rainbow. As spectacular as the backdrop in a theatre. No one would believe it if they heard about it now. There were so many nights when Notu Babu did not return home. He read out page after page of a new play to Sarala. He did rehearsals. He was really keen that Sarala had a baby boy on her lap. He would carry on with this theatre. The intoxication. The madness. But what would his paternity be? Would society accept a dancing woman’s son? O Notu Babu, will your wife accept the child? Your family? The theatre world of the babus and bhadraloks[6]? You yourself would accept him, won’t you, O Notu Babu? Notu Babu had emptied the bottle of whisky and returned home before dawn without answering Sarala’s query. He needed to sleep till noon. Or else he wouldn’t get any play ideas in his head. It couldn’t be taken to the stage quickly. The audience wouldn’t cram the hall.

There was a routine of offering puja in Dakshineshwar on the day a new play was being staged. Sarala used to go to Sri Ramakrishna’s room and seek his blessing, “Let it go well, thakur[7], I’ll give you an offering of hot jilipis[8].” And so, all those plays did well very quickly. There wasn’t even space for a sesame seed in the packed hall. There was repeated applause. People used to scream out, “Encore! Encore!” And then one had to act out a scene once again. Or sing a song. Sarala enjoyed it. People learnt from theatre. Notu Babu believed that. He reminded people of Sri Ramakrishna at every moment. Everyone held their folded hands at their foreheads in obeisance. On the day of the New Year, and on the day of Rathayatra[9], there was always a puja[10]in the drama group’s premises. It was a small group, but so what? All the etiquette and civility of a large group were always in place. Notu Babu saw to that. Sarala used to visit Kashipur on the day of the Kalpataru festival. She prayed inwardly that Sri Ramakrishna came alive and stood before her. That he placed his hand on her head, blessed her, and said, “May you attain enlightenment.”

But where did that happen? Had she been able to shed the veil of illusion? Or this body? She was still standing somehow on her weak legs, a lump of flesh and blood. So then was everything not finished as yet? Did that mean something else was left? What exactly was that? Sarala had not been able to figure that out. When she was about to carry the bucket with the soaked linen to the standpipe on her wobbly legs, she stopped with a start. The morning sunlight that had fallen on the dilapidated wall with exposed bricks beside the main door looked exactly as if someone had cast a theatre light there. Sarala took small steps and went and stood in that light. She shut her eyes. The sound of the third and final bell came wafting from somewhere.

The play, Binodini, the Dancing Girl, was being performed one time. That role had been a longtime dream of Sarala! Binod Babu, the emperor of theatre, had overwhelmed everyone in the role of Sri Ramakrishna. He had been brought after having been paid a hefty advance. The drama group had to pay him a huge fee. Sarala herself had given up the twenty-gram gold necklace that she had received as a prize from the mistress of the Dutta household of Syankrapara. But that play went down really well. The crowd that had come simply to see the play had overflowed beyond the hall and the road and gone all the way to the five-point intersection. Notu Babu used to say in jest, “You seem to have surpassed even the matinee idol, Sarala, my dear!” After rehearsing all night long, when she went to the ghat[11] at dawn and dunked her head in Ma Ganga, she felt refreshed in mind and body. Her wavy hair went down to her waist then. The skin on her body was the colour of gold. Everywhere men ogled at her, as if they were about to pounce on and devour her. After all, they had devoured Binodini. Hadn’t they? Men devoured her. The theatre devoured her. And what about Sarala?

*

A huge crowd at the water-tap today. Apparently, there had been no water at night. And so, the children, the pots and pans, and men and women all seemed to have flung modesty to the winds and exposed themselvesin front of the water-tap. Sarala did not want to go there. There had been none of all this trouble when she lived on a platform on the ghat by the Ganga. There was an open, gaping sky there. And Ma Ganga was with her. Yes, it was a bit difficult during the rainy season and in winter, but what could one do about that?

Sarala had enlisted herself in the ranks of all those folks in this city who did not have a roof over their heads, who lacked a permanent address, who had no one to call their own, let alone a son! It occurred to the actress who had once stood in front of the footlights on stage that the arrangements were complete for the antarjali (the ritualistic act on the bank of the Ganga of immersing the lower part of a dying person’s body)! She spread out her old copy of Kashiram Das’s Mahabharata everyday and recited the verses. After all, that too was an acquirement from way back when Notu Babu himself had schooled her. He has said, “Hey you, what on earth have you learnt of acting if you haven’t read the Mahabharata?” His finger moved from one word to the next. Sarala would sway from side to side to the auspicious cadence –

Offer puja to the Lord of the Universe
With the lotus from the grove where the maiden was born
Her name was formerly Lakshmi Haripriya
She took birth and arrived after a sage’s curse
Because of which the Sindhu was churned
But it can be reversed if Lakshmi finds Narayan.

But Sarala had never attained Narayan, ever. She had never ever been able to hold on to the one she desired. Meanwhile, a dark shadow seemed to fall on the visage of the professional theatre halls and they began to close down. The Five Pandavas could not be staged after the opening show. People slandered it saying the female body had been exposed. They vandalised the theatre. The government declared that it was a perversion of culture.

Notu Babu seemed to have been battered and crushed. The scion of such a distinguished family was humiliated. Evil was spewed against him. He contracted a deadly disease. But could he give up theater even after all that? Not at all. His final wish had been to play the monk Nimai. He had promptly written the script too. At the very centre was Vishnupriya. Could Nimai have become a renunciant without her? This magnificent woman had given up the lotus of the age, something she had been urged to hold on to firmly by everyone. Hadn’t she lamented? Suppressed tears? You have to cast all these aspects like pearls on the stage, Sarala! Only then will your Vishnupriya come alive.  Notu Babu had called her close and said to her. “Will you make me a paan[12] with that rose water of yours? Put some wet supari[13] in it. And some Surabhi zarda[14].”

Sarala used to lay out the paans, folded into small quids. Notu Babu would fill up a silver box with them to eat later. He used to stuff a paan in his mouth and then sit with his eyes shut on an easy-chair. His colourful Kashmiri shawl used to droop down on the floor. It was as if Sarala could see it all hazily even today. That’s why she kept talking covertly, behind the scenes, inwardly, all her life, with that man alone. She badly wanted Notu Babu to at least see this play about the one whom society had deliberately abused. Made dishonourable. Let that same society come and sit in front of the monk Nimai now. Let them realise what theatre was. But that was not to be. Notu Babu suddenly fell off the rickshaw one day on his way to the rehearsal. He never rose again after suffering that fall. How the big and hefty man seemed to have shrunk and become one with the bed!

The rehearsals came to an end. As did the theatre. What a tug of war there was regarding money. The house rent was due. Money was owed at the grocer’s shop. Keshto Chatterjee ran a theatre in the commercial district in Dalhousie Square. He came often to their troupe. He had told Sarala quite a few times in the past to come and act there. She had beauty, glamour, and fame. They would pay her well. ‘What’s the harm in being intimate with educated babus?’ Sarala paid no heed.

When she stood on stage, the entire hall broke into applause. When the audience liked the dialogue, they screamed, “Encore! Encore!” Some people placed bouquets of flowers near her feet at the end of the show. They threw paper planes of love letters at her. Those who dared, came up to her and said they would give her the life of a queen. But Sarala shut the door on all their faces and loved the theatre alone — the theatre in which Notu Babu alone was the presiding deity. How on earth could that very same Sarala go to Dalhousie Square and rent herself out!

But she had to go, much later. When she was completely broken in body and mind. She had applied make-up and acted in a theatre which was a hobby of some babus. She had wanted to share her innermost thoughts with Notu Babu. But the people of his household did not let Sarala enter. She had to return from the main door that bore a lion motif. She had rushed to the cremation ground as soon as she heard about his death. All she saw there was the pyre burning afar.

*

There came a time when the dramas in Dalhousie Square too vanished. Her youth vanished. Her beauty too. Nor were there any more people who wanted to have fun with her body of flesh and blood. When the house she lived in was going to be demolished for redevelopment, Sarala had gone to the ghat on the bank of the Ganga one night. She stood there clutching the Kashiram Das’s Mahabharata to her bosom. She had wondered, had anyone else ever rendered Draupadi more naked than this? “Did you ever get such a large stage anywhere, Notu Babu!” This platform beside the Ganga. Under an ancient banyan. Next to such a big crematorium, with an electric furnace. If Sarala died that night, who would care a whit?

But Sarala didn’t die. She wanted to act again one final time. After dunking herself in Ma Ganga, she had sat on the platform in the ghat and spread Kashiram Das’s Mahabharata in front of her. Those who had come to bathe in the river in the morning saw an ancient lady opening a tattered book and reciting something tunefully. None of them were competent to say whether that was the Mahabharata, or the Ramayana. Some of them were hurrying to work. Some others had come to earn merit by immersing themselves in the river.

As noon approached and her throat grew parched, Sarala had noticed that there was a collection of loose change in front of her. Considering it to be the grace of Ma Ganga, she had knocked her knuckle to her forehead in obeisance and tied the coins in a corner of her anchal[15]. She had bought an earthen basin with the money. Rice. Some fuelwood from the shop in the crematorium that sold the items for the purificatory rites. A bit of ghee. Sarala had fetched and laid two bricks on the bank of the Ganga and prepared the sacred hobishyi,[16] or rice semi-cooked with ghee. She had rolled the rice into large spherical lumps and she had inwardly declared to Ma Ganga, “I performed the funerary rites of my earlier life, Ma. Grant me a new life.”

Her eyes had glistened. She had then gobbled the lumps of rice to feed her belly that had starved for several days. In truth, she was born anew that day. With a new identity too.

So many people used to come to hear Kashiram Das’s Mahabharata! They sat around Sarala in the light of dawn. It was as if she was seated on a large stage, sometimes enacting the Sage Vyasa, sometimes Arjuna, sometimes Bheema, sometimes Draupadi, or sometimes the truthful king Yudhishtra. What an assemblage of simultaneous roles! “If only you saw your matinee idol, Notu Babu, wouldn’t you have been inwardly happy?” Sarala muttered to herself. Yet, it seemed she could not have such happiness for very long. That was the destiny that the Almighty had written on her brow when she was a tiny infant in the delivery chamber.

*

The number of people at the riverbank suddenly waned. Apparently, an epidemic had spread all over the world. And everyone was dying of that disease. The government had prohibited anyone from leaving their house. Don’t go to work. So, then what would people eat! So many hundreds of corpses wrapped in plastic sheets had arrived at the crematorium. The furnaces had burst into flame. But Sarala had cheated death even after all that! It seemed that Yama, the Lord of Death, had developed a distaste for her!

And then something happened during this time. Phuleshwari, the woman who swept the riverbank with her broom, who Sarala used to call to drink tea, and whose tales of joy and woe she listened to, the one whose husband Dumureshwar drove a hearse – one day Phuleshwari simply refused to listen to Sarala’s protests and took her along to a basti[17] beside Dhapa. To their neighbourhood. “Stay here, Ma. There’s an epidemic outside.” Sarala had remained there ever since. But she was not one to be a burden on anyone. After all, she had worked to feed herself from an early age!

Every time she wanted to return to the bank of the Ganga, Phuleshwari, Dumureshwar, their child Bundi, and quite a few city street sweepers had blocked her way. After all, it was they who were her family now. A son-in-law of one of them was a driver for film shooting crews. He took along groups of people from the basti. Apparently, all of them acted. They got a meal and two-hundred rupees in return. One day Sarala too got into the crowded vehicle. Hoping to get work. To feed her belly. And out of the love of acting from way back when.

*

An old woman was frequently spotted in the film studios locality, either behind some major artist, or in a crowd, or sometimes in a procession. Her hair was the colour of jute yarn. A kindly face. Of slender build. Her sun-scorched skin had a copper hue. This old lady didn’t seem to get annoyed at anything at all.

The fussiness over particulars that was prevalent among those who came to swell crowds was completely lacking in the old woman. She could beautifully execute whatever she was told. Most astonishing of all, she could memorise and rattle off any bit of dialogue. She was completely unfazed by the camera. Gradually her circle of acquaintances in the film studios locality began to grow. She got more and more work. And Sarala Debi, who had stood on stage in front of the footlights way back when, kept on performing. Although she never spoke to anyone about her memories of the past. Because she herself had performed her funerary rites, hadn’t she!

“What can I tell you, Notu Babu, you’ll laugh if you hear it. These people do a scene so many times, and the camera is placed in so many angles. And each time, one has to do exactly what one did before. Look back, smile, speak, everything has to be exactly the same. Like our encores. I really like it, you know. So many people, so many lights, so many stories. And do you know what I like most of all, Notu Babu? When all the lights in the set come on, one after another. The Director Babu shouts out, ‘Action!’ We rush and stand in front of the camera. At once, I can clearly see a stage. The black heads of the audience. And far away, very far away, you are sitting in the last row. Watching me act. Do you know what they call me, Notu Babu? No, no, not your Sarala. She died a long time back, didn’t she! I am now “Shooting Dida[18]” in the film studios locality!”

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V. Ramaswamy is a literary and nonfiction translator of voices from the margins. His translation of the novel, The Struggle, by Showkat Ali, was published in 2025.

[1] Puffed rice

[2] Fish with mixed vegetables

[3] A mixed vegetable preparation

[4] Flower concentrate, normally rose

[5] insert

[6] gentlemen

[7] Lord or God: In this case the guru, Sri Ramkrishna (1836-1886)

[8] Sweets

[9] An Odiya festival

[10] Prayer

[11] Riverside jetty

[12] Betel leaf

[13] Betel nut

[14] Fragrant tobacco

[15] Loose end of a saree

[16] An essential part of Hindu funeral rites

[17] Slum

[18] Maternal Grandmother

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Categories
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, Rich 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. Click here 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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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. Rich 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

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Categories
Review

Vignettes from Pre-partition Bengal

Book Review by Somdatta Mandal

Title: The Struggle: A Novel

Author: Showkat Ali

Translators: V. Ramaswamy & Mohiuddin Jahangir

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

Showkat Ali (1936 – 2018) was a renowned Bangladeshi novelist, short story writer and journalist whose work explored history, class and identity in Bengali society.  In 1989, he published a novel called Narai (translated from Bengali as The Struggle) which is set in a remote village in the Dinajpur region of undivided Bengal during the mid-1940s.

The novel is broadly divided into three sections. In the first section entitled ‘A Ploughing Household,’ the author gives us detailed description of an agrarian society where poor Muslim farmers as well as some other lower classes of untouchable Hindus eked out their living primarily through farming as well as other low-paying jobs. The feudal setup of the society is complete with threatening and wily landlords (often Hindus) who are always on the lookout for cheating the sharecroppers of their legitimate dues.

The story begins with a poor farmer called Ahedali who, unable to procure a second bullock to till his field, bore one side of the yoke himself, and soon fell ill and succumbed to death leaving his young wife Phulmoti and a ten-year-old son Abedali behind. The real problem for this widow begins when she is left alone to fend for herself along with a few ducks, chickens and goats. Her fragile world is shattered. People in the village start advising her to get married once again and she gradually finds it very difficult to survive from the ogling eyes and salacious offers from different men in the community. Her son can offer little defense against the men now circling her—neighbours, relatives, even the local cleric—drawn by desire and the lure of her small property. Malek, a kindly bookseller at the local market, too, proves not to be what he seems. It is Malek’s hired hand, Qutubali, who finds himself drawn into her struggles, standing by her in ways that others do not.

The second section of the novel ‘Home and Family’ describes in detail how Qutubali, the simple-minded outsider whose unexpected kindness and fierce loyalty turns into Phulmoti’s unlikely ally. Apparently, he was a senseless and stupid man who provided her benefaction again and again. Much younger to her, he was totally ignorant of standard man-woman relationships and though he often stayed back at Phulmoti’s house, he didn’t express any sort of physical desire for the young widow. He tended to the animals, helped in sowing seeds and worked relentlessly to bring some comfort and peace in the household.

This entire section gives us details of how they come close to each other. Finding no other alternative to live a decent and harmonious life, they go to a mosque where a saint called Darbesh Chacha, who had brought up the orphan Qutubali earlier, gets them married in order that both can live their lives peacefully hereafter. Since then, things gradually changed. If a young widow found a husband, or brought home a ‘ghor jamai’[1], that was definitely news, especially if the man in question was from another village. But people gradually accepted it. Of course, the widow’s suitors fumed with resentment, though even that fire cooled eventually.  Qutubali also gradually started learning the tricks of the trade – he had their own land and along with the yield of the sharecropped land, he knew he could become a full-fledged farmer soon. He was sure the days of his misfortune were over. At the end of this section, when Phulmoti announces to the simple-minded Qutubali that she was pregnant, the reader feels that the rest of the story would follow suit in domestic harmony and bliss. The family had a happy air about them. But that was not to be.

The third section of the novel aptly titled ‘We Must Fight!’ begins amid the upheavals of a precarious feudal order and the stirrings of a nation on the verge of independence. Qutubali did not have the time to stay at home. He was never clear about where he went and what he did. When asked, he replied in monosyllables. He started attending sermons. The headmaster of the village school started indoctrinating him and the village folk with the idea of swadeshi.

The politics of the Congress and the Muslim League started to hover on the margins of village life, far removed from their daily battles. But when the tebhaga[2] struggle broke out in Bengal—with sharecroppers demanding two-thirds of the harvest from landlords as their rightful due—Phulmoti and Qutubali stand to lose what little of their lives they had pieced back together.

By that time, she no longer saw Qutubali as a callow youth. He had become a regular, responsible, labouring man but his gradual involvement in the politics could not be avoided. He got involved in the activities of the peasants’ union. The novel remains open-ended with Phulmoti keeping on waiting for her husband to come back from wherever he was even after a decade is over.

Before concluding, a note must be added about the excellent quality of translation. Both V. Ramaswamy and Mohiuddin Jahangir have done a wonderful job in translating this social realist novel from one of the most celebrated novelists of Bangladesh for the benefit of a wider audience to remember a very detailed study of rural Bengal from both social and political angles from the 1940s — a very significant time when amidst the prevailing feudal order of the agrarian society in rural Bengal, the stirrings of a nation on the verge of independence as well as outside forces were gradually creeping in.

[1] In the usual Bengali tradition, a wife moves on to live in her husband’s house after marriage. The situation is reverse when the married man comes to live in his wife’s or in-law’s house and is then called a ‘ghor jamai.’

[2] The Tebhaga movement was significant peasant agitation, initiated in Bengal in the late 1940s by the All India Kisan Sabha of peasant front of the Communist Party of India. It aimed to reduce the share of crops that tenants had to give to landlords.

Click here to read an excerpt from The Struggle

Somdatta Mandal, critic and translator, is a former Professor of English at Visva-Bharati University, Santiniketan, India.

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Excerpt

The Struggle by Showkat Ali

Title: The Struggle: A Novel

Author: Showkat Ali

Translators: V. Ramaswamy and Mohiuddin Jahangir

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

It was being said that the landlords were terribly angry, and that apparently they would not let the sharecroppers harvest the paddy. The paddy would be cut by people brought from outside. If there was a conflict over the matter, only Allah knew what would happen. Phulmoti did not know any prayers or Quranic verses; ‘Allah’ and ‘Bismillahe Rahamanur Rahim’ were the only sacred words she knew. She inwardly uttered those whenever the fear overwhelmed her.

One morning, Qutubali suddenly spotted someone in the distance, running along the boundary ridge towards their house. The person appeared familiar. So, he kept looking, trying to make out who it was. And why on earth was he running like that?

He recognized the man soon enough. ‘Aare, it is Mahindar!’ Qutubali advanced. Gasping for breath, Mahindar informed him that he had been to Ranisankoil to meet the peasants’ union there. He said he saw many men from Bihar at Pirganj station. They had long-moustachioed faces, and were hefty of build, and they were all carrying long lathis with a brass grip. He had heard that they were going to the house of the landlord Mitra Babu of Ranisankoil to guard the paddy fields. Apparently, thieves were cutting the paddy and taking it away and so the paddy on his field had to be guarded.

Qutubali grew anxious when he heard the news. Both of them rushed to the market, discussing the matter as they went. If the landlords in their locality too brought in Bihari watchmen from the west and made them guard the paddy fields, what would the peasants do? Would the watchmen let the sharecroppers cut the paddy? And what if they did not? Would the sharecropping peasants sit idly by with folded hands? The plough and the bullocks belonged to the sharecropper; he was the one who toiled, and it was he who raised the crop. Would he have no claim over that crop now? Would they not permit him to even enter the crop field? What nonsense was this? Hired musclemen from Bihar to guard ripe paddy in the fields was simply unacceptable!

Both of them were in agreement. No, the sharecroppers would cut the paddy. If there was resistance, then a fight would break out, and if indeed it did, then they must fight.

‘There’s no option but to fight,’ Mahindar said. ‘Let anyone say what they want, but we must fight.’

When they reached the union office, they saw that Baram Horo was already there, puffing on a beedi. He was surprised to see the two of them.

‘You people? Where’s Mondol? And Dinesh?’

Qutubali and Mahindar were startled. ‘Why, was Delbar Mondol supposed to come here?’

‘Yes,’ Baram said. ‘Dinesh asked Mondol to come. He needs to be here.’

‘Why? What happened?’

The news wasn’t good, Baram informed them. ‘Instructions have been received in all the police stations that since the paddy in the landlords’ fields might be looted, the police must guard the paddy with rifles until the harvest is over. I think they won’t let the sharecropping peasants cut the paddy.’

They didn’t realize how quickly the day passed—it was already afternoon. A lot of people had joined them by now. All were sharecropping peasants, except for Dr Abhimanyu Sen. There were discussions and information was shared. No one could say what the district-level leaders had decided.

‘They will decide what they think is appropriate,’ Doctor Babu said, ‘but will we sit twiddling our thumbs because of that? The landlords are bringing musclemen. We can’t bring guns, but we too have to pick up lathis. This isn’t anything new; the peasant earlier carried a cattle-prod, now he’ll carry a six-foot-long lathi of seasoned bamboo. Go, brothers, go and cut lathis from bamboo clumps…’

Dinesh Murmu kept shaking his head, growling, ‘What rubbish is this! Saala, the government, police and political parties are all on the side of the landlords. No one is on our side.’

The stalks full of ears of ripe paddy stood all over the floodplain with their heads bowed, waiting for the festival of harvest to begin! But the festive moment never arrived.

Qutubali was unable to sleep. Countless millions of stars shed dew smeared with blue light as the night advanced towards the next horizon. From many faraway fields could be heard the cries of ‘Hoshiyar…jaagte raho—o—o… Beware, stay awake!’ He had seen with his own eyes that Ghosh Babu too had brought a hired band of Bihari guards from Purnea district. He had no idea whose counsel the Mistress had followed in taking this step. Was she planning on getting the paddy cutting done by someone else? What about the task of husking the paddy? That too?

His wife was asleep next to him, as was his son, but he remained awake.

At some point during those still hours, Doctor Babu arrived at their house on a bicycle. He gave clear instructions: Delbar Mondol and Mahindar Burman were not to remain at home at night, nor were they to set foot in the nearby town or the marketplace in the market town. If they did, they might be arrested by the police and sent to jail. Doctor Babu also conveyed the news that the police had gone to arrest Dinesh and Baram, but fortunately, they couldn’t. Having got the news, the two had gone into hiding.

‘We are not going to start fighting just now…that’s right… but that doesn’t mean that we will let the police catch us,’ Doctor Babu said. ‘We will be careful and keep ourselves safe. And we will cut the paddy and bring it home—we must keep that in mind.’

No cutting of the paddy, no ploughing of the soil for the next crop, just sitting and waiting! If the ears dried up, would the paddy be fit to cut? All the stalks would drop off their ears.

Extracted from The Struggle: A Novel by Showkat Ali, translated by V. Ramaswamy and Mohiuddin Jahangir. Published by Speaking Tiger Books, 2025.

ABOUT THE BOOK

Set in a remote village in the Dinajpur region of undivided Bengal during the mid-1940s, The Struggle tells the intertwined story of Phulmoti—a young widow fighting to hold on to her land, her dignity and her child—and Qutubali, a simple-minded outsider whose unexpected kindness and fierce loyalty make him her unlikely ally amid the upheavals of a precarious feudal order and the stirrings of a nation on the verge of independence.

The death of Phulmoti’s husband shatters her fragile world. Her ten-year-old, Abed, can offer little defence against the men now circling her—neighbours, relatives, even the local cleric—drawn by desire and the lure of her small property. Malek, a kindly bookseller at the local market, too, proves not to be what he seems. It is Malek’s hired hand, Qutubali, who finds himself drawn into her struggles, standing by her in ways that others do not. The politics of the Congress and the Muslim League hover on the margins of village life, far removed from their daily battles. But when the tebhaga struggle breaks out in Bengal—with sharecroppers demanding two-thirds of the harvest from landlords as their rightful due—Phulmoti and Qutubali stand to lose what little of their lives they have pieced back together.

First published in 1989 as Narai, this novel is not only a vivid portrayal of endurance in the face of isolation and rural exploitation, but also a sharp indictment of the social and political systems that deny justice to the poor. This sensitive translation introduces to a wider audience a forgotten classic of Bengali literature—politically clear-eyed and deeply moving.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Showkat Ali (1936–2018) was a renowned Bangladeshi novelist, short story writer and journalist whose work explored history, class and identity in Bengali society. His most celebrated novel, Prodoshe Prakritojon (1984), is considered a landmark in Bangladeshi literature.

ABOUT THE TRANSLATORS

Mohiuddin Jahangir is currently Assistant Professor in Khabashpur Adarsa University College, Bangladesh. His articles on literature, history and heritage have been published in scholarly journals, and he is the author of seven books.

V. Ramaswamy has translated many well-known Benglai authors. He was awarded the Translation Fellowship by the New India Foundation, and the English PEN Presents award in 2022.

Click here to read the review of the novel

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL