Tag: Snigdha Agrawal

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Stories

The Dance of Life

By Snigdha Agrawal

The sun often shone brightly in the small, quiet town of Uttarpara,[1] illuminating the newly laid asphalt-lined streets and vibrant gardens in front of most houses. But for Gowri, an elderly woman of seventy-eight, the light had dimmed to a dull flicker. Outside her window, life bustled, yet she felt it was happening on a different planet.

Once she had been the mover in her community—a fierce advocate for women’s empowerment, engaging them in revenue-earning activities, through pottery, painting, cooking, and weaving, supported by her husband Shekhar, a well-known and respected member of the society.   

 After her husband’s untimely death, the warmth in her home began to fade. She sought the warmth from her artist friends. This did not sit well with her children.  They objected to her carrying on with the social activities she was involved with.  Well-meaning yet misguided, they insisted it was for her safety. They believed that the world had grown too dangerous for someone of her age. So, they began the process of isolating her, one layer at a time.

At first, it was simple. “Mom, why don’t you let us help with the groceries? We’ll just do a quick online order,” they suggested. That meant not going out. Gowri, though reluctant, acquiesced. Next came the visits that grew fewer and further apart, their busy lives seeming to expand while her own contracted.

Then, her virtual connections crumbled. “We think it’s best if you take a break from social media, and all online activities” her daughter said, her voice filled with concern. “It’s so easy to get duped. There are scammers out to make a quick buck. We will handle all your banking activities, and promise to call more often.”  Once the financial control was in their hands, the calls dwindled as the months rolled by, replaced by a suffocating silence.

Gowri found herself trapped in a house that felt like a cage. The once vibrant laughter of her friends at the local art complex, housed in a garage, was replaced by echoes of memories. The absence of touch—of a hand on her shoulder, the embrace of a friend—left her feeling ghostlike, a shadow of her former self.  She missed visits to the Sunday haat [2] where her line of pottery drew large crowds, crafted from mud collected from the Hooghly River.   

As weeks turned into months, the isolation seeped into her mind, entwining itself with her thoughts. She felt as if she were part of a macabre dance, orchestrated by her family’s misguided affection. Each step in this dance led her further from the world, pulling her deeper into a solitude that echoed with the whispers of the past.

One night, Gowri stood by the window, gazing at the moonlit street. She could see the neighbours laughing, children playing, and couples walking hand in hand…a replay of vignettes from her life when she was younger strolling with her husband behind their skipping kids.  She felt punched in the belly wrapped in insufferable loneliness that old age had brought on.

She was unprepared for the awakening that followed. The local community centre hosted an art exhibition, and for the first time in months, Gowri felt a flicker of hope. She longed to see her friends, to share in their laughter and creativity. Summoning her courage, she decided to venture out, despite the concerns of her family. They would have no inkling of her movements being so far removed from her home in Uttarpara.

With a look of determination, she stepped outside, dressed in her favourite cream with red border jamdani [3] saree, which Shekhar had bought from Dhaka on one of his official visits.  

When she entered, the warmth enveloped her like a long-lost embrace. Friends turned, eyes widening in shock and delight. “Gowri!” they exclaimed, rushing to her side, their voices filling the air with the vibrant hues of life. At that moment, the dance of death that had surrounded her began to unravel, replaced by a lively rhythm of connection and joy.  The spark in her eyes returned as she mingled with them, admiring the work put up for the exhibition.  Her last painting rested on the easel occupying centre stage.  This gesture made her feel she was never truly alone.  A feeling of empowerment suffused her being.

Gowri realised that old age should not be a reason for isolation. It should not mean living in a cocoon, separated from the vibrant life that pulsed just beyond her door.

As she lay in bed, a smile crept across her face. The initiation into the dance of death had not claimed her; instead, she had stepped back into the dance of life, refusing to let anyone dictate the music. In the embrace of her memories and her friends, Gowri found a spark of defiance, a whisper of hope that would guide her forward.

The dance of death was only one story; the dance of life was hers to write anew.

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[1] City in West Bengal

[2] farmer’s market

[3] saree woven in Dhaka (Bangladesh)

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Snigdha Agrawal (nee Banerjee) is a published author of four books and a regular contributor to anthologies published in India and overseas.  A septuagenarian, she writes in all genres of poetry, prose, short stories and travelogues.

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

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Celebrating Humanity

Autumnal Melodies

Art by Sybil Pretious


October spins a series of celebrations that carry on to herald a glorious start of a new year and beyond. From the Chinese Festival of the Nine Emperor Gods which happens to coincide with Navratri to Christmas and beyond — festivals bring joy into our lives. Majority of these human constructs ring in happiness and hope while reflecting the victory of what we consider good over evils. Often these celebrations are syncretic, roping in people from all cultures and religious creeds, creating a sense of oneness in a way that only a stream of contentment can.

Here we bring to you writings that reflect this cross cultural joyous streak of humanity with translations of Tagore, Nazrul, poetry from the contemporary voices of Ihlwha Choi and John Grey and more prose from Fakrul Alam, Aruna Chakravarti, Ravi Shankar, Snigdha Agrawal, Rhys Hughes, Keith Lyons and Farouk Gulsara. Let us celebrate our commonalities with joy and revive love in a war-torn world. 

Poetry

A Lovesong in the Battlefield by Afsar Mohammad. Click here to read.  

One Star by Ihlawha Choi. Click here to read.

Groundhog Day by John Grey. Click here to read.

Nazrul’s Prolloyullash ( The Frenzy of Destruction) has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.

 Tagore’s Andhokaarer Utso Hote(From the Fount of Darkness) has been translated from Bengali. Click here to read.

Prose 

The Oral Traditions of Bengal: Story and Song by Aruna Chakravarti describes the syncretic culture of Bengal through its folk music and oral traditions. Click here to read.

Memories of Durga Puja : Fakrul Alam recalls the festivities of Durga Puja in Dhaka during his childhood. Click here to read.

An Alien on the Altar! Snigdha Agrawal writes of how a dog and lizard add zest to festivities with a dollop of humour. Click here to read

In Dim Memories of the Festival of Lights, Farouk Gulsara takes a nostalgic trip to Deepavali celebrations in the Malaysia of his childhood. Click here to read.

A Doctor’s Diary: Syncretic Festivities: Ravi Shankar writes of his early life in Kerala where festivals were largely a syncretic event. Click here to read.

In I Went to Kerala, Rhys Hughes treads a humorous path bringing to us a mixed narrative of Christmas on bicycles . Click here to read.

Hold the roast turkey please Santa  Celebrating the festive season off-season with Keith Lyons from New Zealand, where summer solstice and Christmas fall around the same time. Click here to read.

Categories
Editorial

Where Are Those Happy Days?

From Public Domain

Festivals are like friends.

They bring hope, solace and love to those who believe in them. But, when the structures holding the fiestas in place start to crumble, what do we do then?

Our lives have moved out of wilderness to cities over centuries. Now, we have covered our world with the gloss of technology which our ancestors living in caves would have probably viewed as magic. And yet we violate the dignity of our own kind, war and kill, destroy what we built in the past. The ideological structures seem ineffective in instilling love, peace, compassion or hope in the hearts of the majority. Suddenly, we seem to be caving in to violence that destroys humanity, our own kind, and not meting out justice to those who mutilate, violate or kill. Will there be an end to this bleak phase? Perhaps, as Tagore says in his lyrics[1], “From the fount of darkness emerges light”. Nazrul has gone a step further and stated clearly[2], “Hair dishevelled and dressed carelessly/ Destruction makes its way gleefully. / Confident it can destroy and then build again …Why fear since destruction and creation are part of the same game?”

And yet, destruction hurts humans. It kills. Maims. Reduces to rubble. Can we get back the people whose lives are lost while destruction holds sway? We have lost lives this year in various wars and conflicts. As a tribute to all the young lives lost in Bangladesh this July, we have a poem by Shahin Hossain. Afsar Mohammad has brought in the theme of festivals into poetry tying it to the current events around the world. In keeping with the times, Michael Burch has a sense of mirthlessness in his poems. Colours of emotions and life have been woven into this section by Malashri Lal, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Fhen M, Shamik Banerjee, George Freek, Matthew James Friday, Jenny Middleton and many more. This section in our journal always homes a variety of flavours. Stuart MacFarlane has poems for Wordsworth… and some of it is funny, like Rhys Hughes’ poem based on photographs of amusing signposts. But then life has both sorrows and laughter, and poetry is but a slice of that as are other genres. We do have non-fiction in a lighter vein with Hughes’ story and poem about pizzas. Devraj Singh Kalsi has given a tongue in cheek narrative about his library experiences.

Suzanne Kamata has written for us about her visit to Rwanda. Farouk Gulsara has pondered over humanity’s natural proclivities.  Wiccan lore has been discussed by Rajorshi Patranabis. And Snigdha Agrawal has tuned into humour with her rendition of animal antics that overran festivities. Ravi Shankar, on the other hand, has written about the syncretic nature of festivals in Kerala. Professor Fakrul Alam has given a nostalgic recap of Durga Puja during his childhood, a festival recognised as an “Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity” by UNESCO, and known for its syncretic traditions where people from all backgrounds, religions and cultures celebrate together.

Festivals have also been taken up in fiction by Tanika Rajeswari V with a ghostly presence hovering over the arrangements. Paul Mirabile has taken us around the world with his story while Saeed Ibrahim writes from his armchair by the Arabian sea. Sahitya Akademi winner for his children’s stories, Naramsetti Umamaheswara Rao, has showcased peer pressure among youngsters in his narrative.  

Two stories have also featured in our translations. Christine C Fair has rendered Veena Verma’s Punjabi story about an illegal immigrant into English. Hinting at climate concerns, Sharaf Shad’s fiction, has been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Tagore’s powerful poem on Africa has been brought to Anglophone readers by Debali Mookerjea-Leonard as well as his inspiring lyrics, Andhokaarer Utso Hote (From the Fount of Darkness), by our team. Nazrul’s vibrant lyrics, Shukno Patar Nupur Paye (With Ankle Bells of Dried Leaves), has been rendered into English from Bengali by Professor Alam.

Our reviews explore immigrant stories in fiction with Somdatta Mandal reviewing Ammar Kalia’s A Person Is a Prayer. Bhaskar Pariccha has written about Selected Works of Vyasa Kavi Fakir Mohan Senapati, edited by Monica Das. Fakir Mohan is a legendary writer from Odisha. Meenakshi Malhotra has discussed a book on another legend, Safdar Hashmi, one of the greatest names in street theatre in India. The book is by Anjum Katyal and called, Safdar Hashmi: Towards Theatre for a Democracy.

Our book excerpts usher good cheer with a narrative by Ruskin Bond from Let’s Be Best Friends Forever: Beautiful Stories of Friendship. And also hope with a refugee’s story from Ukraine, which travels through deserts, Italy and beyond to US and has a seemingly happier outcome than most, Lara Gelya’s Camel from Kyzylkum. This issue’s conversations take us around the world with Keith Lyons interviewing Lya Badgley, who has crossed continents to live and write. Malashri Lal, the other interviewee, is an academic and writer with sixteen books under her belt. She travels through the world with her poetry in Mandalas of Time.

Huge thanks to the Borderless team for putting this issue together – the last-minute ties – and the art from Sohana Manzoor. Without all this, the edition would look different. Heartfelt thanks to our contributors without whose timely submissions, we would not have a journal. And most of all we thank our readers – we are because you are – thank you for reading our journal.  As all our content, despite being indispensable, could not be mentioned here, do pause by our content’s page for this issue.

We wish you a wonderful month!

Cheers,

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

[1] Tagore’s Andhokaarer Utso Hote (From the Fount of Darkness)

[2] Nazrul’s Proloyullash translated by Professor Alam as The Frenzy of Destruction

Click here to access the content’s page for the October 2024 Issue.

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Categories
Slices from Life

An Alien on the Altar?

By Snigdha Agrawal

Birth Of Krishna: Madhubani Art. From Public Domain

Throwback to the early 60s.  Janmashtami[1] was a highly anticipated event for us kids, back then.  In our community of expats, the Sharma household outdid others in celebrating the festival with great fanfare.  Aunty Sharma would start the preparations days ahead of the festival, instructing the gardener to collect loose soft soil from the periphery of her kitchen garden.  Plying the soft soil between her fingers, a miniature model village scene was crafted, closely resembling Mathura, where Lord Krishna was born.  Single gauge railway track winding through the plains, midway a station master’s cabin, cows grazing in the green fields at the foot of the grassy sloped conical hills, built into the scene.  Village belles dressed in colourful clothes poised to fill their urns from the lake, (formerly an empty biscuit tin overlaid with mud), made it more picturesque. Thatched roofed huts, and a post office with a red-letter box, made it complete.   Picture perfect in every respect identical to villages depicted in Bollywood movies with heroines dancing around trees.  Placed right in the centre was the crib with the bronze idol of Baby Krishna, looking indolently at worshippers.  The entire scene rested against the living room wall, covered with Auntie’s gold brocaded wedding saree, the two edges tied to the door hinges on either side.

The highlight of the evening was not in the rituals but in the eating of the prasad and the special ‘shudh shakahari’[2] dinner that followed. It was a once-in-a-year dinner that we relished and hogged till our tummies could take no more.  Apart from the binge-eating of homemade besan[3] and coconut laddoos[4], soaked in ghee, offered to the idol, it was the ‘panjiri[5]’ prasad[6], our eyes were fixed on for reasons, other than holy. Made of roasted wheat flour, dry fruits, powdered sugar, spices and a generous helping of ghee added to give it a unique taste and texture, this offering had special significance for us. Of powdery consistency that could go in any direction; swallowed or blown in faces for the heck of it.  The latter was always on our minds, the fun part of the festivities.  Never begrudged by the seniors, who were tickled pink seeing our ‘panjiri’ covered ghostly faces, with pieces of dried fruit stuck in the hair, hanging from eyelashes, stuck at the corners of the mouth.  And always ended in a contest of who could blow the most. Who looked the weirdest?  Thus, acquiring the name ‘phoo phaa’.  The ‘phoo’ sound from the funnel-shaped mouth in the act of blowing, followed by the ‘phaa’ from the mouth muscles stretched sideways.  Those amongst us with missing frontal teeth struggled to get it right as the powdery ‘panjiri’ got moistened by saliva a bit too soon, the ‘phoo’ producing zero results.

One year, the contest was struck off.  For no fault of anyone.  Nor any shortcomings in the puja[7] arrangement.  The scene was up like every year, with a little modification here and there.  Bronze plates were laid out with homemade laddoos, whole fruits, the steel dekchi filled with ‘panchamrit[8]’, a sweet drink made by mixing five ingredients — milk, yoghurt, crushed basil leaves, honey and Ganga Jal [9]to which sugar, ghee, chironji[10] and makhana[11] are added for the crunch part and flavouring.  A drink commonly had to break the day-long fast. This fast was observed by Uncle and Aunty Sharma only.  A cupful of the delicious drink had us craving for more.  It was rationed to pass around to all the attendees. No one left without partaking of this prasad spooned out on open palms.  We were treated to a second helping of the leftovers, if any.

The puja rituals progressed as usual with the offering of flowers, prasad, and singing of hymns, to be followed by the aarti.  Aunty was about to light the ghee lamp for the aarti[12] when our attention was diverted to the sound of a splash in the biscuit tin lake. 

An unexpected visitor had landed from outer space! Uninvited, it dropped from the ceiling above.  We jumped in fright and disgust at the sight of an ugly lizard amid the holy scenery. The creepy-looking reptile stared at us, unblinking, flicked its tongue, cocked its head to one side, then to the other and slithered up to the railway track, making clear its intention of lingering. 

That was not to happen. Baxter the two-year-old Alsatian, otherwise a well-disciplined pet, sitting on his haunches, guarding the inmates and watching the puja with full devotion, bounded across the room barking at the invader, ready to crush the creature under his paws. After all, it was his job to protect the family. In his view, this intruder certainly did not qualify as a worshipper.  

Uncle and Aunty tried to calm him.  That was out of the question.  He went straight into the village scene, bringing it down, chasing the half-tailed lizard, looking at him tauntingly as if to say ‘Catch me if you can’.  The laddoos went flying into the air, the fruit platter upturned, and the ‘panjiri’ mixture floated up like a cloud over the village. ‘Baxter stop…stop’ from Uncle and Aunty went unheeded. Baxter was not in a mood to give up the chase.  Just as he was about to paw swipe, the lizard darted between the folds of the brocaded saree and vanished in the blink of an eye.  Baxter barking furiously spun around, nose to the ground, desperately searching for the invader.  Chintu the cook, busy in the kitchen preparing dinner, heard the commotion and came running, grabbed Baxter by his collar, deftly clipped on the chain, tying him to the balcony railing. Peace was restored. 

Wasn’t this a bad omen, Aunty questioned with concern.  “No…no…Lord Krishna had visited in the avatar of the lizard and blessed us all” comforted Uncle.  Baby Krishna was lifted out of the crib and placed in the alcove on the wall, which served as the mandir for all Gods and Goddesses.  Aarti was resumed, to the ringing of the heavy brass bell and singing of “Om Jai Jagdish Hare[13]”, a hymn sung when concluding the puja.

Baxter sat in the balcony corner with his ears drooped, tail tucked between his legs, a soulful look in his eyes, fixed on Uncle, seeking forgiveness for his misdemeanor.  “It’s okay, Baxter,” Uncle whispered, patting him on the head, and unchaining him. He lifted his head slightly, his tail beginning to wag again slowly.  The reprimand was over and forgiveness had arrived.  He joined us at the dining table, crouching underneath and parking himself near Auntie’s feet.  The grand ‘shudh shakahari’ dinner commenced with deep-fried kachoris[14], an assortment of cooked vegetables, both dry and with gravy, lachha — ginger juliennes soaked in lemon juice, ending with the thick and creamy kheer[15].  With the arrival of the last, the missed ‘phoo phaa’ contest that year, receded into the far corners of our minds. 

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[1] A festival celebrating the birth of Krishna held in mid-August in India

[2] Pure vegetarian

[3] Gram flour

[4] Dry sweets

[5] A sweet made during this occasion

[6] An offering to Gods that is later consumed by the devotees

[7] Prayer

[8] A sacred mixture of five ingredients used in Hindu Puja

[9] Water from the Ganges – considered holy and therefore, potable

[10] Chironji, grows in India – refers to the fruit,  a nutty seed, sweet and salty in taste.

[11] Lotus seed

[12] Offering of lights, candles or lamps

[13] O Lord of the Universe

[14] Deep-fried Indian bread, stuffed with spiced lentils

[15] Indian dessert made of milk

Snigdha Agrawal (nee Banerjee) is a spontaneous writer, writing in all genres, covering poetry, prose, short stories and travelogues.  A non-conformist septuagenarian, she took up writing as a hobby post-retirement and continues to learn and experiment with the out-of-the-box style.

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

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Contents

Borderless, August 2024

Art by Sohana Manzoor

Editorial

A Sprinkling of Happiness?… Click here to read.

Conversation

A review of and discussion with Rhys Hughes about his ‘Weird Western’, The Sunset Suite. Click here to read.

Translations

Two Songs of Parting by Nazrul have been translated by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.

The Snakecharmer, Shapuray by Nazrul, has been translated from Bengali by Sohana Manzoor. Click here to read.

Leaving for Barren, Distant Lands by Allah Bashk Buzdar has been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.

Loneliness has been translated from Korean by the poet, Ihlwha Choi. Click here to read.

Tagore’s Olosh Shomoy Dhara Beye (Time Flows at an Indolent Pace) has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Click here to read.

Poetry

Click on the names to read the poems

Michael Burch, Arshi Mortuza, Jason Ryberg, Saranyan BV, Koiko Tsuuda, Jane Hammons, Noopur Vedajna Das, Adeline Lyons, George Freek, Naisha Chawla, John Grey, Lakshmi Chithra, Craig Kirchner, Nia Joseph, Stuart MacFarlane, Sanjay C Kuttan, Nilsa Mariano, G Javaid Rasool, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Rhys Hughes

Musings/ Slices from Life

Breaking Bread

Snigdha Agrawal has a bovine encounter in a restaurant. Click here to read.

That Box of Colour Pencils

G Venkatesh writes of a happy encounter with two young children. Click here to read.

The Chameleon’s Dance

Chinmayi Goyal muses on the duality of her cultural heritage. Click here to read.

Musings of a Copywriter

In Godman Ventures Pvt. Ltd., Devraj Singh Kalsi looks into a new business venture with a satirical glance. Click here to read.

Notes from Japan

In In Praise of Parasols, Suzanne Kamata takes a light look at this perennial favourite of women in Japan. Click here to read.

Essays

The Comet’s Trail: Remembering Kazi Nazrul Islam

Radha Chakravarty pays tribute to the rebel poet of Bengal. Click here to read.

From Srinagar to Ladakh: A Cyclist’s Diary

Farouk Gulsara travels from Malaysia for a cycling adventure in Kashmir. Click here to read.

Bottled Memories, Inherited Stories

Ranu Bhattacharyya takes us back to Dhaka of the 1930s… and a world where the two Bengals interacted as one with her migration story. Click here to read.

Landslide In Wayanad Is Only The Beginning

Binu Mathew discusses the recent climate disaster in Kerala and contextualises it. Click here to read.

Stories

The Orange Blimp

Joseph Pfister shares a vignette set in the Midwest. Click here to read.

A Queen is Crowned

Farhanaz Rabbani traces the awakening of self worth. Click here to read.

Roberto Mendoza’s Memoirs of Admiral Don Christopher Columbus

Paul Mirabile explores myths around Christopher Columbus in a fictitive setting. Click here to read.

Book Excerpts

An excerpt from Syed Mujtaba Ali’s Shabnam, translated from Bengali by Nazes Afroz. Click here to read.

An excerpt from Maaria Sayed’s From Pashas to Pokemon. Click here to read.

Book Reviews

Somdatta Mandal reviews Upamanyu Chatterjee’s Lorenzo Searches for the Meaning of Life. Click here to read.

Meenakshi Malhotra reviews Shuchi Kapila’s Learning to Remember: Postmemory and the Partition of India. Click here to read.

Rakhi Dalal reviews Namita Gokhale’s Never Never Land. Click here to read.

Bhaskar Parichha reviews Malvika Rajkotia’s Unpartitioned Time: A Daughter’s Story. Click here to read.

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Amazon International

Categories
Editorial

A Sprinkling of Happiness?

A Pop of Happiness by Jeanie Douglas. From Public Domain

Happiness is a many splendored word. For some it is the first ray of sunshine; for another, it could be a clean bill of health; and yet for another, it would be being with one’s loved ones… there is no clear-cut answer to what makes everyone happy. In Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince (JK Rowling, 2005), a sunshine yellow elixir induces euphoria with the side effects of excessive singing and nose tweaking. This is of course fantasy but translate it to the real world and you will find that happiness does induce a lightness of being, a luminosity within us that makes it easier to tackle harder situations. Playing around with Rowling’s belief systems, even without the potion, an anticipation of happiness or just plain optimism does generate a sense of hope for better times.  Harry tackles his fears and dangers with goodwill, friends and innate optimism. When times are dark with raging wars or climate events that wreck our existence, can one look for a torch to light a sense of hope with the flame of inborn resilience borne of an inner calm, peace or happiness — call it what you will…?

It is hard to gauge the extreme circumstances with which many of us are faced in our current realities, especially when the events spin out of control. In this issue, along with the darker hues that ravage our lives, we have sprinklings of laughter to try to lighten our spirits. In the same vein, externalising our emotions to the point of absurdity that brings a smile to our lips is Rhys Hughes’ The Sunset Suite, a book that survives on tall tales generated by mugs of coffee. In one of the narratives, there is a man who is thrown into a bubbling hot spring, but he survives singing happily because his attacker has also thrown in packs of tea leaves. This man loves tea so much that he does not scald, drown or die but keeps swimming merrily singing a song. While Hughes’ stories are dark, like our times, there is an innate cheer that rings through the whole book… Dare we call it happiness or resilience? Hughes reveals much as he converses about this book, squonks and stranger facts that stretch beyond realism to a fantastical world that has full bearing on our very existence.

Poetry brings in a sprinkling of good cheer not only with a photo poem by Hughes, but also with more in a lighter vein from Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Michael R Burch, Arshi Mortuza, Jason Ryberg and others. Sanjay C Kuttan has given a poem dipped in nostalgic happiness with colourful games that evolved in Malaysia. Koiko Tsuuda, an Estonian, rethinks happiness. George Freek, Stuart MacFarlane and Saranyan BV address mortality. Nilsa Mariano and G Javaid Rasool have given us powerful migrant poetry while John Grey, Craig Kirchner, Jane Hammons, Nia Joseph, Noopur Vedajna Das and Adeline Lyons refer to climate or changes wrought by climate disasters in their verses.

A powerful essay by Binu Mathew on the climate disaster at Wayanad, a place that earlier had been written of as an idyllic getaway, tells us how the land in that region has become more prone to landslides. The one on July 30th this year washed away a whole village! Farouk Gulsara has given a narrative about his cycling adventure through the state of Kashmir with his Malaysian friends and finding support in the hearts of locals, people who would be the first to be hit by any disaster even if they have had no hand in creating the catastrophes that could wreck their lives, the flora and the fauna around them. In the wake of such destructions or in anticipation of such calamities, many migrate to other areas — like Ranu Bhattacharya’s ancestors did a bit before the 1947 Partition violence set in. A younger migrant, Chinmayi Goyal, muses under peaceful circumstances as she explores her own need to adapt to her surroundings. G Venkatesh from Sweden writes of his happy encounter with local children in the playground. And Snigdha Agrawal has written of partaking lunch with a bovine companion – it can be intimidating having a cow munching at the next table, I guess! Devraj Singh Kalsi has given a tongue-in-cheek musing on how he might find footing as a godman. Suzanne Kamata has given a lovely summery piece on parasols, which never went out of fashion in Japan!

Radha Chakravarty, known for her fabulous translations, has written about the writer she translated recently, Nazrul. Her essay includes a poem by Tagore for Nazrul. Professor Fakrul Alam has translated two of Nazrul’s songs of parting and Sohana Manzoor has rendered his stunning story Shapuray (Snake Charmer) into English. Fazal Baloch has brought to us poetry in English from the Sulaimani dialect of Balochi by Allah Bashk Buzdar, and a Korean poem has been self-translated by the poet, Ihlwha Choi. The translations wind up with a poem by Tagore, Olosh Shomoy Dhara Beye (Time Flows at an Indolent Pace), showcasing how the common man’s daily life is more rooted in permanence than evanescent regimes and empires.

Fiction brings us into the realm of the common man and uncommon situations, or funny ones. A tongue-in-cheek story set in the Midwest by Joseph Pfister makes us laugh. Farhanaz Rabbani has given us a beautiful narrative about a girl’s awakening. Paul Mirabile delves into the past using the epistolary technique highlighting darker vignettes from Christopher Columbus’s life. We have book excerpts from Maaria Sayed’s From Pashas to Pokemon and Nazes Afroz’s translation of Syed Mujtaba Ali’s Shabnam with both the extracts and Rabbani’s narratives reflecting the spunk of women, albeit in different timescapes…

Our book reviews feature Meenakshi Malhotra’s perspectives on Shuchi Kapila’s Learning to Remember: Postmemory and the Partition of India and Bhaskar Parichha’s thought provoking piece on Malvika Rajkotia’s autobiographical Unpartitioned Time: A Daughter’s Story. While both these look into narratives around the 1947 Partition of the Indian subcontinent, Rakhi Dalal’s review captures the whimsical and yet thoughtful nuances of Namita Gokhale’s Never Never Land. Somdatta Mandal has written about Upamanyu Chatterjee’s latest novel, Lorenzo Searches for the Meaning of Life, which is in a way a story about a migrant too.

When migrations are out of choice, with multiple options to explore, they take on happier hues. But when it is out of a compulsion created by manmade disasters — both wars and climate change are that — will the affected people remain unscarred, or like Potter, bear the scar only on their forehead and, with Adlerian calm, find happiness and carpe diem?

Do pause by our current issue which has more content than mentioned here as some of it falls outside the ambit of our discussion. This issue would not have been possible without an all-out effort by each of you… even readers. I would like to thank each and every contributor and our loyal readers. The wonderful team at Borderless deserve much appreciation and gratitude, especially Manzoor for her wonderful artwork. I invite you all to savour this August issue with a drizzle of not monsoon or April showers but laughter.

May we all find our paths towards building a resilient world with a bright future.

Good luck and best wishes!

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

Click here to access the content’s page for the August 2024 Issue.

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Categories
Slices from Life

Breaking Bread

By Snigdha Agrawal

From Public Domain


However much as one would like to get over and be done with doctor appointments, some days get completely derailed.  Never mind the fear lurking in the mind of the outcome of such visits. Perforce one has to sit patiently waiting to be called by the receptionist, clad in a short white coat, bursting with self-importance. And when she announces unapologetically “We are running behind schedule…please come back after lunch,” tempers justifiably hit the ceiling. Having to deal with sore bums and hunger pangs, further compounds the woes.

On such a day, with frayed tempers, we stepped outside in search of an eatery, and located one closest to the hospital, on the sidewalk. Small, with limited indoor and outdoor seating.  Serving the usual South Indian fare of crispy golden-brown dosas, idlis, pongal, and vegetarian thali meals.  Comfort food for hungry stomachs, most enjoy for its freshness, quick service and pocket-friendly prices. A few four-wheeler taxi drivers, construction workers, hospital staff along with us quickly filled up the space during the lunch break. Placing our order at the counter, we opted for the kerbside sit-outs.  Grabbing a vacant table and chair, we made ourselves comfortable enjoying the breeze under the awning of a big banyan tree. An altogether different and humbling experience.

The food arrived in nanoseconds. And we dug into it pronto. The smell of clarified butter preceding it had already activated the salivary glands.  While we were at it, in walked Lady Moo, in her shiny black coat, udders full, demanding to have lunch with the rest of us.  No one seemed disturbed by her presence or irritated at her persistent calling out for lunch.  I confess it was unnerving to have her breathing down my neck, mortally scared of being guillotined with her ivory polished horns, ringed with a marigold garland. Unfounded.  She stood unmoving on her ground, polite and gentle, belying her size and appearance.

That she was a regular was evident with the waiter bringing out a steel plate heaped with idlis and vadas, which she polished off in no time.  Lifted her tail and took a dump right there in front of a ‘no-class distinction’ audience. Shook her tail a couple of times, as if to say “thank you” to the manager and the waiters.  Gently stepping down the kerb, ambled across to the opposite side, unconcerned about holding up the traffic flow in both directions. No one honked to upset Lady Moo, the privileged one who has the right of way in our country, at all times, disregarding any urgencies or emergencies.  Not uncommon in a marriage of the urban with the rural, across big cities. Mind calmed, we returned to the hospital to face the ‘wait challenge’. 

They say happiness comes in small bytes. This incident sparked a silver line of hope that suddenly made its appearance to lift the spirits that had taken a beating in the hospital. A complete volte-face!   

Snigdha Agrawal (nee Banerjee) is a published author of four books and a regular contributor to anthologies published in India and overseas.  A septuagenarian, she writes in all genres of poetry, prose, short stories and travelogues.


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

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

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Categories
Contents

Borderless, July 2024

Art by Sohana Manzoor

Editorial

Seasons out of Time… Click here to read.

Conversation

A brief introduction to Suzanne Kamata’s Cinnamon Beach and a conversation with the author about her latest novel. Click here to read.

Translations

Tagore’s Achhe Dukhu, Achhe Mrityu, (Sorrow Exists, Death Exists) has been translated from Bengali by Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.

Nazrul’s Ghumaite Dao Shranto Robi Re (Let Robi Sleep in Peace) has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.

Amalkanti by Nirendranath Chakraborty has been translated from Bengali by Debali Mookerjea-Leonard. Click here to read.

Speech Matters, a story by Naramsetti Umamaheswararao, has been translated from Telugu by Johnny Takkedasila. Click here to read.

Every Day by Hafeez Rauf has been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.

The Long Journey by Ihlwha Choi has been translated from Korean by the poet himself. Click here to read.

Mrityu or Death by Tagore has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Click here to read.

Poetry

Click on the names to read the poems

Jared Carter, Michael Burch, Kirpal Singh, Rakhi Dalal, Stuart MacFarlane, Averi Saha, John Grey, Surbhi Sharma, David Francis, Pramod Rastogi, David Mellor, Saranyan BV, Jim Bellamy, Tasneem Hossain, Thompson Emate, George Freek, Mitra Samal, Lizzie Packer, Shamik Banerjee, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Rhys Hughes

Musings/ Slices from Life

Stop, Look, Think!

Farouk Gulsara muses with a slice irony at a traffic junction. Click here to read.

Norman Rockwell: Out of the Closet

Wayne F. Burke gives a vignette of the life of the legendary illustrator. Click here to read.

Unveiling the Magic of Mystical Mangroves

Sai Abhinay Penna travels to the second largest mangrove forest in the world. Click here to read.

Glimpses of an Indian Summer

Madhuri Bhattacharya nostalgically captures the nuances of a hot summer. Click here to read.

The Pearl of the Indian Ocean

Ravi Shankar travels to Colombo. Click here to read.

Essays

The Myriad Hues of Tagore by Aruna Chakravarti

Aruna Chakravarti writes on times and the various facets of Tagore. Click here to read.

Picked Clean

Snigdha Agrawal writes of the impact from the loss of green cover in Bangalore. Click here to read.

Fast Food for a Month

Keith Lyons gives an in memoriam about the late documentarian, Morgan Spurlock. Click here to read.

Stories

In the Shadows…

Paul Mirabile gives us a story steeped in art and mental health. Click here to read.

The Last Hyderabadi

Mohul Bhowmick talks of the passage of an era. Click here to read.

Alvin and the Curious Case of Spoilt Milk

Anagha Narasimha gives a light hearted piece about the impact of demonetisation. Click here to read.

Book Excerpts

An excerpt from The Poisoner of Bengal/The Prince and the Poisoner by Dan Morrison. Click here to read.

An excerpt from The Sunset Suite by Rhys Hughes. Click here to read.

Book Reviews

Somdatta Mandal reviews Knife:  Meditations After an Attempted Murder by Salman Rushdie. Click here to read.

Basudhara Roy reviews Wild Women: Seekers, Protagonists and Goddesses in Sacred Indian Poetry by Arundhathi Subramaniam. Click here to read.

Navleen Multani reviews Mapping the Mind, Minding the Map, edited by Basudhara Roy and Jaydeep Sarangi. Click here to read.

Bhaskar Parichha reviews Derek Waller’s The Pundits: British Exploration of Tibet and Central Asia. Click here to read.

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Amazon International

Categories
Editorial

Seasons Out of Time

Climate disasters. From Public Domain
...the horror of dark red sky – the gates of hell opened wide so they say that even atheists prayed to save the souls of the dead...

— Lizzie Packer, 'Hot Dry Summers'

The description in ‘Hot Dry Summers’ is not of hell but what is perceived as happening on certain parts of Earth due to global warming or climate change. Forest fires. Nearer the equator, the storms have become harsher with lightning strikes that seem to connect the Earth to the sky. Trees get uprooted as the soil is softened from excessive rain. Sometimes, they fall on passers-by killing or injuring them. There is no rain in some places, forest fires or flooding in others… The highest temperatures touched 55 degrees Celsius this year. Instead of worrying about losing our homes lodged on land masses to the oceans that continue to rise, becoming dark heat absorbers due to loss of white ice cover, we persistently fight wars, egged on by differences highlighting divisive constructs. It feels strange that we are witness to these changes which seem to be apocalyptic to doomsday sayers. Are they right? Our flora, fauna and food will also be impacted by global climate change. How will we survive these? Will we outlive these as a species?

Keeping the myriad nuances of living on this planet in mind, we have writings from more than a dozen countries showcased in this issue, with a few highlighting climate change and wars — especially in poetry. Michael Burch has given us poetry on weather. John Grey has celebrated nature. Other than Lizzie Packer, Mitra Samal has a subtle poem on climate change. Stuart McFarlane and David Mellor bring the disaster of war to our doorstep. Jared Carter, Kirpal Singh, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Averi Saha, Shamik Banerjee, David Francis, George Freek, Rakhi Dalal and more have reflected on the varied nuances of life. Rhys Hughes has brought in humour and a comment on our perspectives, with his poem ‘Devil’s Bridge to Istanbul’… Can a shortcut be found across continents with the magic of a signboard?

Poetry in our translations’ section travels to Balochistan, from where a Hafeez Rauf translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch, talks of burning tyres, again conflicts. It takes on a deeper hue as Ihlwha Choi translates his poignant poem from Korean, reflecting on the death of his mother. We have a translation of Tagore’s less popular poem, Mrityu[1], reflecting on the same theme. His reflections on his wife’s death too have been translated by Professor Fakrul Alam who has also shared a song of Nazrul, written and composed on the death of Tagore. Another lesser-known poet but brilliant nonetheless, Nirendranath Chakraborty, has been translated for us by Debali Mookerjea-Leonard. And what a tremendous poem it is when the person called Amalkanti wanted to be sunshine! We have a story too — ‘Speech Matters’ by Naramsetti Umamaheswararao translated by Johny Takkedasila.

Our stories as usual travel around the world — from Holland (by Paul Mirabile) to Hyderabad (by Mohul Bhowmick) and with a quick pause at Bangalore (by Anagha Narasimha). Travels in the real world are part of our non-fiction. Sai Abhinay Penna takes to a the second largest mangrove forest in the world and Ravi Shankar to Colombo. Madhuri Bhattachrya gives us a glimpse of an Indian summer and Snigdha Aggrawal explores the impact of climate change in her part of the world. Farouk Gulsara actually writes his reflections at a traffic junction. And it reads droll…

We have an in memoriam by Keith Lyons on Morgan Spurlock, the documentary maker who ate McDonald fare for a month and then made a film on it. We have two tributes to two legends across time. Wayne F Burke has given a brief piece on the iconic illustrator, Norman Rockwell. And Aruna Chakravarti, the queen of historic fiction who brought the Tagore family alive for us in her two very well researched novels, Jorasanko and Daughters of Jorasanko, has given us a fabulous tribute to Tagore on the not-so common aspects of him.

We have excerpts from another historical novel set in Bengal of Tagore’s time, Dan Morrison’s The Prince and the Poisoner: The Murder that Rocked the British Raj and Hughes’ The Sunset Suite, a set of absurd tall tales that make you smile, squirm or wonder…  Reviews of Salman Rushdie’s Knife: Meditations After an Attempted Murder by Somdatta Mandal and of Arundhathi Subramaniam’s Wild Women: Seekers, Protagonists and Goddesses in Sacred Indian Poetry by Basudhara Roy bring two latest books to our readers. Navleen Multani reflects on Mapping the Mind, Minding the Map, edited by Basudhara Roy and Jaydeep Sarangi. And Bhaskar Parichha tells us about a group of men called Pundits during British Raj, “In the closed files of the government of British India, however, they were given their true designation as spies…” in his review of Derek Waller’s The Pundits: British Exploration of Tibet and Central Asia.

Suzanne Kamata, the novelist who does a column from Japan for us normally, has spoken to us about her new novel, Cinnamon Beach, which overrides multiple manmade constructs. It’s an interesting read from someone who lives her life across multiple cultures and transcends many boundaries.

This is a bumper issue, and it is difficult to convey the vibrant hues of words that colour this edition. Please do pause by our contents page for a more comprehensive look.

This issue would not have been possible without all our fabulous contributors and a wonderful, dedicated team. We are delighted that Rakhi Dalal — who has done many reviews and shares her poetry with us in this issue — has agreed to be a writer-in-residence with us. A huge thanks to all of you, and especially Sohana Manzoor for her artwork. I am truly grateful to our readers for popularising our efforts to put together an online space with free and vibrant reads.

I would like to end with a few lines that gives me hope despite climate change, wars and doomsday predictions.

There’s more to life,
he says to me,
than what you choose to see. 

— George Freek, 'The Imponderables'

Enjoy the reads.

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

[1] Death

Click here to access the content’s page for the July 2024 Issue.

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Categories
Essay

Picked Clean

By Snigdha Agrawal

Bangalore 1991
Bangalore 2024

Right now, we are on the cusp between pre-monsoon and full-blown monsoon.  The commencement of cool windy breezes and the partially cloudy skies comes as a welcome relief after the asphalt-melting summer heat, experienced this year.  Just what is needed to uplift melting spirits. The mind has started recalibrating, the body readjusting, to the sudden dip in temperatures in the ‘Garden City’ of Bangalore, known for its salubrious climate right around the year.  Defined by a short, short summer with the temperature barometer rarely rising above 34°C.  December, January, and February, temperatures usually hover around 16°C to 18°C, a trend that has barely changed over the last thirty-plus years of my stay in the city.  However, over these thirty-odd years, there have been several departures concomitant to the growth and evolution of the city. 

The nomenclature “Pensioner’s Paradise”, has lost its significance with the progressive encroachment into virgin lands and lung spaces in the city getting systematically squeezed. A ‘Paradise lost’ and no hopes of it ever being regained.  Road rollers, cranes, and crawlers are seen in every neighbourhood, slowly but surely picking the city clean of all its flora, fauna and water bodies. Justifiably nothing different from the growth path in other metros across the world but its impact on the environment, has become more and more evident.  I can unequivocally say, that some of these major shifts have had a huge impact on both climate and the environment. The causative effect of overpowering greed hinged on profitability.  The then Bangalore, a far cry from the now Bangalore. I will come to that later.  


When I first relocated to Bangalore from Kolkata, a coastal city with a hot and humid climate, the sobriquet ‘air-conditioned’ City was not its only USP.  It had earned the epithet ‘Silicon Valley’ that came about with IT companies/industries shifting their operations, lock stock and barrel to this much sought-after location, ergo necessitating a shift of manpower.  The city thus, witnessed a massive exodus of techies/white-collar workers, moving in from various parts of the country to take up residence in the city.  Dominique Lapierre’s City of Joy[1] saw the greatest pullout.  Discarding the old for the new as some would think, was not so out of choice but for compelling reasons, following the shutdown of establishments, an antiquated work culture, and the government’s short-sighted policies; some of the contributing factors attributed to this attrition.

In June 1991, we moved into the city which surprised us pleasantly.  First, there was no need to run ceiling fans.  Strikingly different from Kolkata, where fans and air-conditioners did little to relieve the heat and humidity. Bangalore’s room air-conditioner vents remained tightly closed permanently, and by extension, contributed to a reduction in noise pollution.  The susurration of the breeze, floating in through the windows was like being permanently plugged into music channels on YouTube.  Therefore, it was unsurprising to that the figure for the first month’s electricity bill was a record low since the previous decade. 

Natural lighting was more than abundant without anything to block it, eliminating the need to switch on the lights till well after sunset. The view from the 6th-floor apartment balcony on Richmond Road opened into an orchard of tall palm trees, beyond which stood the Good Shepherd Convent.  Nuns walking in the coconut orchards while fingering the moving rosary beads had this effect of transporting one to a seaside setting, sans the sand and sea.  Sublime.  Often, I wondered if we had moved to a city at all! The ambience was so contrary to what one would conjure about big cities. 

By the time, we moved out of the apartment, after a stay of twelve years, the view was curtained off.  Gone were the tall trees. Felled indiscriminately.  Spidery earth movers had taken over, raising noise pollution, and piercing through the ear drums.  The heavily laden polluted air inhaled gave rise to frequent allergies. From the perspective of the locals, who resented the invasion of their paradise, parthenium was not alone to blame.  Rightly so. 

Funnily with the commencement of the academic year, my girls then twelve and eight were taken aback by the need to wear sweaters to school. “Woollens are for winter months, right Mamma?”  True that. A strange phenomenon for the newly arrived Kolkata migrants precipitated the need to unbox the woollens, with naphthalene balls inserted between folds.  Duvets and blankets intended to be unpacked during November and December got a premature release from their taped cardboard cartons.  That was Bangalore weather then. 

In a couple of years, as the girls moved from school to college, they were no longer layering during these monsoon months of June/July.  The only conclusion drawn is either they had acclimatised to the Deccan plateau weather conditions or had become self-conscious during the growing up process, or was it a clear pointer to climate change? The latter seems more plausible.  Supported by the fact that initially during the first few years, the bathroom geysers stayed plugged in for the entire day, to the subsequently reduced hours (one/two hours before shower time) stay highlighted with a bright marker on memory panels. 

With the wiping out of tree-lined avenues and vintage colonial bungalows dotting the landscape, giving way to multi-storeyed offices and high-rise apartment complexes, the city soon acquired a garish makeover plastering the natural tone of the city’s face.  Twelve years on Richmond Road, saw all this and more.  Decentralisation was on its way.  Moving out from the central district to the outlying areas, becoming inevitable.  In 2003, we moved to our new apartment in Domlur Layout, still relatively pristine, with virgin forest cover.  But not for very long.  The tentacles of greed reached out grabbing all this, in justification of better civic amenities.  In a couple of years, the inner ring road snaked its way connecting Indiranagar to Koramangala thus reducing travel time.  Hailed as the best thing for commuters, at what cost?  Filling up ponds, deforestation, levelling whole villages, and gobbling up military land as well — approvers of the city’s expansion worked tirelessly.    

Water shortage was evident here with most residential complexes having to rely on tankers for water supply.  A cost added to the already steep monthly maintenance fee paid by apartment dwellers as well as stand-alone homes. Unbudgeted.  Dipping into pockets, water shortage was rearing its ugly head in the City of Thousand Lakes, conceived and built by Kempe Gowda.  The bane of urbanisation, reportedly, of the eighty-one existing ‘live’ lakes Kempambudhi and Ulsoor dating back to the 16th century, have since shrunk in acreage. Many others have just disappeared from the landscape.

In our pursuit of green spaces and low noise pollution, we once again moved further to Whitefield, named the Electronic City, a neighbourhood in Bangalore developed explicitly for housing the electronics industry in 2017.  Greens visible.  Aha! This would be our paradise in a city turned inside out with ugly stitches showing up in the inner seams.  Alas! A short-lived dream.  The beautiful Vathur Lake, a huge water body, soon was seen foaming and frothing, spilling over to the adjacent lands as a consequence of chemical effluents pouring into the lake.  Resulting in the discolouration of water and an unbearable stench, it became imperative for lake-side dwellers to shift residence. The lavender hyacinth blooms floating on the lake surface were permanently coffined and nailed down by concrete slabs.  Roads ran over these.  Voices were raised in protest.  But who’s listening?  Construction activities continued, all in the name of development, providing job opportunities, and housing for the increased growth in population.  A city bursting at the seams.

This year summer took the worst toll, with temperatures peaking at 38.1°C on 2nd May, the hottest day in forty years.  From no air conditioners being run in 1991 to sitting whole day in air-conditioned surroundings is riling for all.  Faced with acute shortages, the city authorities clamped down on water usage, making it mandatory for apartment dwellers to install aerators on taps, to reduce the water flow. Failure to comply would invite heavy penalties, uniformly across the city.  And they were deadly serious, warning of inspectors making surprise visits to homes to ensure compliance.

Now, in a two-member household, that to retirees, that made no sense.  I confess to non-compliance and got away with it.  Resorting to ‘bucket baths’ in place of standing under the shower, was a contribution in the right direction. With the rains, this mandate has been lifted. And that brought on chuckles rewinding to childhood memories of those bitterly cold winter months and Ma’s famous line ‘no kager chaan[2]’ before our baths and, most often, being sent back to repeat baths.  Ma put up with no excuses for short-cut baths.  But the writing on the wall is loud and clear.  Heading to the apocalypse?  

For the time being, I feel privileged that the green field outside my third-floor living room balcony, a disputed property, remains untouched.  A treat for the old eyes.  For how long is anybody’s guess?  

The green field outside the window. Photograph by Snigdha Agrawal

[1] Kolkata. The City of Joy by Dominique La Pierre gave Kolkata that sobriquet

[2] Crow’s bath

Snigdha Agrawal (nee Banerjee) is a published author of four books and a regular contributor to anthologies published in India and overseas.  A septuagenarian, she writes in all genres of poetry, prose, short stories and travelogues.

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

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Amazon International