Rabindranath Tagore’s Amra Choli Somukhpane(We Look Forward and March) was first published in 1916 as part of Balaka (Flight of Migratory Cranes).
Art by Sohana Manzoor
WE LOOK FORWARD AND MARCH
Who would dare bind us If we look forward and march! Those who look to the past, Weep regret to the last. With bloodied feet rip the chains. Walk ahead in sun and shade. They will trap themselves With their self-wrought webs, Weeping regret to the last.
A fiery storm sounds the bugle. The mid-day sun shines An awakening. The mind soars onwards Intoxicated with radiance. If they cross the threshold, They will be blinded By the brightness of the light, Weeping regret to the last.
We will conquer oceans and hills, We will transgress their will. I do not fear treading the path alone. Friends return together. They form coteries. They have defined boundaries. They will be trapped within The walls they have created, Weeping regret to the last.
This poem has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravartywith editorial input by Sohana Manzoor
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
In conversation with Teresa Rehmanwith focus on her non-fiction, Bulletproof: A Journalist’s Notebook on Reporting Conflict and a brief introduction to her book. Click here to read.
Translations
Robihara(Sunless)by Kazi Nazrul Islam has been translated by Professor Fakrul Alam from Bengali. Clickhere to read.
Four of his ownMalay poems have been translated by Isa Kamari. Click here to read.
In a world torn by conflict, why would one mention hope or compassion? In an age of dystopian scenarios, why would we dream of utopias?
Perhaps it’s wishful musings, but at some level what people need to survive is probably something to look forward to — a speck of light — a wishful idea called hope. Hope builds resilience. Utopias are built on hope, on love and compassion. Dystopias are built on desperation and despair. They take fear or horror to the extreme and play on people’s vulnerabilities. They might induce a cathartic effect and one might say— we are better off as we are in the present or we must act so that this never happens. Is that something we can really say in a world where wars are disrupting peace and lives of all humanity, where violence against civilians is becoming an accepted norm, where shortages could also be a reality for most of us? Utopias, on the other hand, build on the element of an ideal, a dream towards which we can move on the bleakest day of our existence. They could be used to stir hope and envision a reality devoid of violence. And perhaps, some of it would congeal into a real-world scenario with smaller doses of the bad and ugly. In a conflict-ridden world, which almost feels like a reenactment of George Orwell’s 1984 (only about four and a half decades after his predicted date) what would touch your heart, give you a sense of relief— hope for a better future or dwelling on doomsday predictions? What would you want for your progeny?
Just before the pandemic changed our lives, a book was published where while questing for their own utopia, a group of young people became part of a dystopian reality. They were known as the ULFA rebels[1] and their story was told in Bulletproof:A Journalist’s Notebook on Reporting Conflict by Teresa Rehman. The current relevance of this book cannot be undermined because not only does it humanise the insurgents perspective, but it also shows how a centrist set up can neglect the needs of particular fringe communities. In addition, Rehman’s heartrending stories of poachers and people who live unaccepted in the margins only strengthen the need for an unboxed world where tolerance and compassion would transcend these artificially created fences that divide and lead to violence. This issue features Rehman’s book and an online discussion with her which stretches beyond the confines of pages.
We have more poetry in our translations, some sombre and some funny. A Bengali poem written as a tribute by Nazrul on the death of his older friend, Rabindranath Tagore, has been rendered into English by Professor Fakrul Alam. To add a lighter touch, we have translated a fun-filled poem by Tagore. Isa Kamari continues to translate his own Malay poems to bring in flavours of the culture. This time his poems seem to urge a need to transcend age-old stratifications. We also have a Balochi human-interest story by Younus Hussain brought to us in English by Fazal Baloch.
Hughes’ column too has fiction. His humorous and absurdist fables continue to urge re-evaluation of the world as well as genres. We also have a poignant narrative built around a Vietnamese migrant family by Mario Fenech. Sayan Sarkar shares a tale upending norms set in Kolkata while Naramsetti Umamaheswararao narrates a story about a young boy overcoming his fears. Abhik Ganguly gives us a strange fiction set in the future in a different galaxy, where Earth is seen as the original planet of human evolution.
C Christine Fair, who is an established translator, has surprised us — like Lyons — this time with a personal memoir which dwells on the deeply annihilating impact of norms that define gender roles. Upending the idea of an immutable ruler who can overpower us, is an essay by Ravi Varmman K Kanniappan with its roots in the ruins Rameses II — known as Ozymandias too — and Shelley’s poem of the same name.
We have had an overflow of writing about the unusual and redefining norms in our non-fiction section. Odbayar Dorj weaves an unusual narrative and shares photographs from a village of scarecrows in Japan that has a population of 27 humans and 370 scarecrows. She tells us: “In a place where people and scarecrows live side by side, I began to understand something simple but profound: sometimes, when human presence fades, we find our own ways to fill the silence with memories, imagination, and love.” Humanity never ceases to hope. Filling in silences are narratives by Arathi Devandran and Mubida Rohman on how they deal with the quietness left by departed loved ones.
We have more from Meredith Stephens with photographs by Alan Noble on their trip to Vietnam — as they travel to places that are less touristy while Gowher Bhat explores the Sunday Book Bazaar at Old Delhi. Farouk Gulsara travels back to Penang where he spent his childhood and reflects on changes. Are they always for the best?
Suzanne Kamata takes up changes with a soupçon of humour as she writes of how the AI finally conceded to her husband, “Your wife is not wrong…” while Jun A. Alindogan writes of how social media can create mayhem if misused to spread fake news. Devraj Singh Kalsi resorts to sardonic humour of a darker hue as he explores ways to make a living.
Gulsara has also explored Sam Dalrymple’s Shattered Lands: Five Partitions and the Making of Modern Asiawhich starts with the extent of the British Empire with its western-most point at Aden and stretching in the east to Burma. There was a period from 1839 to 1867, when it stretched from Aden to Singapore[2], which was a part of Malaya, leaving out Siam or Thailand which never succumbed to colonial rule. The book starts at a later date — 1928 — and talks of the piecing of the British Empire, with questionable stances taken by historically heroic figures, thus urging a critical relook at our own past — just over the last hundred years.
Our reviews include Rakhi Dalal’s take on Maithreyi Karnoor’s rather unusual stories fromGooday Nagar.Bhaskar Parichhahas wandered back to non-fiction with the late Kaukub Talat Quder Sajjad Ali Meerza’s Wajid Ali Shah: A Cultural and Literary Legacy, translated from Urdu by Talat Fatima, a history that makes us reassess views on the last of the Awadhi nawabs. Somdatta Mandal has also shares a discussion on Sushila Takbhaure’s My Shackled Life, translated from Hindi by Deeba Zafir and Preeti Dewan, a narrative that showcases the resilience of the author.
This issue could not have been put together without all our wonderful contributors. Heartfelt thanks for sharing your gems with us. Huge thanks to the Borderless team too who continue to support bringing in variety, colour and reinforcing our values. Much thanks to Sohana Manzoor for the fabulous cover art and to all those who share vibrant visuals with their writing. Many thanks to our readers too who make our efforts worthwhile. Do write in with your comments.
Look forward to greeting you all again next month!
Shomoye Choleyi Jaay(The Time Passes) by Tagore is a humorous poem from the collection Khapchhara (Eccentric) published in 1936.
Melting Watch by Salvador Dali (1904-1989) . From Public Domain
THE TIME PASSES
The time passes Daily in complaints While Bhupu rests his head On a pillow, full of anxious feints. He suspects His wristwatch isn’t great; He has stopped winding it till it stopped dead. The time-hands don’t move, But it stays strapped to his wrist. To satiate Bhupu’s eternal, Incessant need for rest, The sun seems to shine relentlessly While the watch indicates Five in the morning permanently on its glassy dial face. It seems the night is ablaze With a polish of laziness, That is why he lies delighted On his bed with happiness.
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This poem has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravartywith editorial input by Sohana Manzoor
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote, The droghte of March hath perced to the roote, And bathed every veyne…
The Canterbury Tales (1387-1400) by Chaucer, Prologue
This is the month Asia hosts sprays of new years across multiple regions. Many of these celebrate the fecundity of Earth, spring and the departure of bleak winter months. Each new year is filled with hope for the coming year. The vibrant colours of varied cultures celebrate spring in different ways, but it is a welcome for the new-born year, a jubilation, a reaffirmation of the continuity of the circle of life. Will the wars, especially the shortages caused by them and felt deeply by many of us, affect these celebrations? Had they impacted the festivals that were celebrated earlier? These are questions to which we all seek answers. We can only try to gauge the suffering caused by war on those whose homes, hopes, families and assets have been affected other than trying to cope with the senselessness of such inane attacks. But, in keeping with TS Eliot’s observations on Prufrock, most of us continue our lives unperturbed and as usual.
Some of us think and try to dissent for peace and a world without borders with words – prose or poetry. To reinforce ideas of commonalities that bind overriding divides, we are excited to announce a poetry anthology mapping varied continents with content from Borderless Journal, Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems. We are hugely grateful to Hawakal Publishers for this opportunity and to Bitan Chakraborty for the fabulous cover design. We invite you all to browse on the anthology which is available in hardcopy across continents.
Our issue this month is a bumper issue with the translation of Tagore’s Roktokorobi (Red Oleanders) by Professor Fakrul Alam. It’s the full-length play this time as earlier we had carried only an excerpt. The play is deeply relevant to our times as is Somdatta Mandal’s English rendition of his story, ‘Daliya’, set in Arakan. We also have also translated Tagore’s response to the idea of mortal fame and deification in poetry. Kallol Lahiri’s poignant Bengali story about the resilience of an ageing actress has been brought to us in English by V Ramaswamy. Isa Kamari brings us translations of his Malay poems exploring spirituality through nature.
But what really grips are the fables that Hughes will be sharing with us over four months. He calls them Rhysop Fables, after the ancient ones from Aesop’s with the ancient author himself being mentioned in one of the short absurdist narratives this time. In fiction, our regular fable writer, Naramsetti Umamaheswararao explores a modern-day dilemma, that of social media intruding into the development of children. Jonathon B Ferrini glances at resilience and mental disability while, Sangeetha G looks into societal attitudes that still plague her part of the world. Oindrila Ghosal gives a story set in Kashmir.
From Kashmir, Gower Bhat shares a heartfelt musing on being a first time father. Mohul Bhowmick writes of Eid in Hydearbad (Hari Raya in Southeast Asia) — echoing themes from Kamari’s poems — and Anupriya Pandey ponders over the quiet acceptance of mundane life that emphasises social inequities. Jun A. Alindogan brings home issues from Phillipines. While we have stories about Vietnam from Meredith Stephens, Suzanne Kamata muses about Phnom Penh, mesmerised by Cambodian dancers.
Farouk Gulsara writes of his cycling trip from Jaipur to Udaipur bringing to life dichotomies of values and showing that age can be just a number. Chetan Poduri reinforces gaps created by technology as does Charudutta Panigrah, a theme that reverberates from poetry to fiction to non-fiction and much of it with a light touch. Devraj Singh Kalsi sprinkles humour with his strange tale about hiring a bodyguard.
Keith Lyons has brought in Keith Westwaters, a soldier-turned-poet who seems to find his muse mainly in New Zealand. We have also featured an author who overrides borders of continents, Marzia Pasini. Her book, Leonie’s Leap, has a protagonist of mixed origin and her characters are drawn out of Russia, India, Bulgaria and many other places.
This rounds up our April issue. Do visit our content’s page and explore the journal further.
Huge thanks to the wonderful team, especially Sohana Manzoor for her art. They help bring together the colours of the world to our pages. Huge thanks to contributors who make each issue evolve a personality of its own. And heartfelt thanks to readers who make it worth our while to write.
Every birthday, Tagore wrote a poem, and this is a later one. Published in Nabajatak (Newborn) in 1940, Jonmodin (Birthday) reflects the poet’s own dispassionate look at mortality.
Art by Sohana Manzoor
BIRTHDAY
The one you decked With many ornaments — I do not recognise that personage, Nor does my antarjami* validate Your deification of my name. The divine act of creation Is beyond your comprehension. By the sands lining the oceans Of time, he sculpts rare statues, Drawing draperies to a close In absolute solitude. Outside, Light blends into darkness. Some see that; some, something else. Fragmenting the form from the shadow, with imagined illusions, Hollow at times — with these they initiate Anomalies in introductions. The sculptor creates And with the creation plays, Raises me from dust to light, From brightness to night — Everyone knows that this is transient, The wheel of time’ll shatter it all to smithereens. Some seem to be blessed With fleeting immortal fame. For a few moments, the delusion holds But what remains is a fistful of dust. Death washes and wipes away all other signs. All you people distract yourselves With the doll you have decked. Will he get more time? Will he become eternal? As you imagine the future, My personal sculptor Laughs, watching From the corner of his eye, That is what I muse on today.
*Antarjami: the one who knows your inner soul, normally refers to God
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This poem has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty with editorial input by Sohana Manzoor
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Meenakshi Malhotra writes of the diverse ways histories can be viewed, reflecting on the perspective from the point of view of water, climate, migrations or women. Click here to read.
Sometimes, we have an idea, a thought and then it takes form and becomes a reality. That is how the Borderless Journal came to be six years ago while the pandemic raged. The pandemic got over and takeovers and wars started. We continued to exist because all of you continue to pitch in, ignoring the differences created by certain human constructs. We meet with the commonality of felt emotions and aesthetics to create a space for all those who believe in looking beyond margins. We try to erase margins or borders that lead to hatred, anger, violence and war. Learning from the natural world, we believe we can be like the colours of the rainbow that seem to grow out of each other or the grass that is allowed to grow freely beyond manmade borders. If nature gives us lessons through its processes, is it not to our advantage to conserve what nurtures us, and in the process, we save our home planet, the Earth? We could all be together in peace, enjoying nature and nurture, living in harmony in the Universe if only we could overlook differences and revel in similarities.
A young poet Nma Dhahir says it all in her poem that is a part of our journal this month —
This is how we stay human together: by refusing the easy damage, by carrying each other without calling it sacrifice, by believing that what we protect in one another eventually protects the world.
Translations has more poetry with Professor Fakrul Alam bringing us Nazrul’s Bengali lyrics in English and Fazal Baloch familiarising us with beautiful Balochi poetry of the late Majeed Ajez, a young poet who left us too soon. Isa Kamari translates his own poems from Malay, capturing the colours of the community in Singapore to blend it with a larger whole. And of course, we have a Tagore poem rendered into English from Bengali. This time it’s a poem called ‘Jatra (Journey)’ which reflects not only on social gaps but also on politics through aeons.
Christine C Fair has translated a story from Punjabi by Lakhvinder Virk, a story that reflects resilience in women who face the dark end of social trends, a theme that reverberates in Flanagan’s poetry and Meenakshi Malhotra’s essay, which while reflecting on the need of different perspectives in histories – like water and nomads — peeks into the need to recall women’s history aswell. This is important not just because March hosts the International Women’s Day (IWD) but because one wonders if women in Afghanistan are better off now than the suffragettes who initiated the idea of such a day more than a century ago?
This time our non-fiction froths over with scrumptious writings from across continents. Tamara-Lee Brereton-Karabetsos muses on looking at numbers and beyond to enjoy the essence of nature. Farouk Gulsara ideates about living on in posterity through deeds and ideas. Gower Bhat shares how he learns story writing skills from watching movies. Meredith Stephens talks of her experience of a fire in the Australian summer. Bhaskar Parichha writes with passion about his region, Odisha. We have a heartfelt tribute to Mark Tully, who transcended borders, from Bhowmick. And an essay on Arundhati Roy’s memoir, Mother Mary Comes to Me, from Somdatta Mandal, which explores not just the book but also the covers which change with continents. Prithvijeet Sinha travels beyond Lucknow and Suzanne Kamata brings to us stories about her trip to Phnom Penh.
Keith Lyons draws from the current crises and writes about changing times, suggesting: “Changes aren’t endings, but thresholds.” Perhaps, if we see them as ‘thresholds of change’, the current events are emphasising the need to accept that human constructs can be redefined. I am sure a Neolithic or an Australopithecus would have been equally scared of evolving out of their system to one we would deem ‘superior’. Life in certain ways can only evolve towards the future, even if currently certain changes seem to be retrogressive. We can never correctly predict the future… but can only imagine it. And Devraj Singh Kalsi imagines it with a dollop of humour where tails become a trend among humans again!
Humour and absurdity are woven into a series of short fables by Hughes while Naramsetti Umamaheswarao weaves a fable around acceptanceof differences. In fiction, we have stories of resilience from Jonathon B Ferrini and Terry Sanville. Bhat gives us a story set in Kashmir and Sohana Manzoor gives us one set in Dhaka, a narrative that reminds one of Jane Austen… and perhaps even an abbreviated version of the 2001 film, Monsoon Wedding.
In reviews we have, Mohammad Asim Siddiqui discussing Anisur Rahman’s The Essential Ghalib. Rituparna Khan has written on Malashri Lal’s poetry collection reflecting on women, Signing in the Air. And Bhaskar Parichha has reviewed Deepta Roy Chakraverti’s Daktarin Jamini Sen: The Life of British India’s First Woman Doctor, a book that reflects on the resilience that makes great women. Thus, weaving in flavours of the IWD, which applauds women who are resilient while urging humans for equal rights for one half of the world population.
While we ponder on larger realities, Borderless Journal looks forward to a future with more writings centred around humanity, climate change, our planet and all creatures great and small. This year has not only seen a rise in readership and contributors — and the numbers rose further after our unsolicited Duotrope listing in October 2025 — but has also attracted writers from more challenged parts of the world, like Ukraine, Iran, Tunisia and Kurdistan. We are delighted to home writing from all those who attempt to transcend borders and be a part of the larger race of humanity. I would like to quote Margaret Atwood to explain what I mean. “I hope that people will finally come to realize that there is only one ‘race’—the human race—and that we are all members of it.” And I would like to extend her view to find solidarity with all living beings. I hope that there will be a point in time when we will realise there’s not much difference between, a lizard, a fly, a human or a tree… All these lifeforms are necessary for our existence.
I would want to hugely thank all our team for stretching out and making this a special issue for our sixth anniversary and Manzoor for her fabulous artwork. Huge thanks to all our contributors and readers for being with us through our journey. Let’s change the world with peace, love and friendship!
Written in 1932 by RabindranathTagore, Jatra (Journey) is a part of Rabindra Rachnabali (Writings of Ranbindranath) and Sanchayita (Compilation — in this case of poems).
The poem, Jatra (Journey) in Sanchayita
JOURNEY
The emperor journeys to battle. The earth trembles With the clash of drums and cymbals. The minister Conspires, spreads web of deceit through realms. Trading streams encircle the world with ebb and flow. Cargo ships travel to distant shores. Monuments of Heroism grow out of piles of human skeletons raising Their heads heavenward to laugh with disregard. The learned repeatedly attack impenetrable fortresses Of knowledge, walled by books. The king’s fame spreads far and wide.
Here, in the village, the river flows sluggishly In the distance. The ferry picks up the new bride Sailing to a far colony. The sun sets. The shores Are lined with silent fields. The girl’s heart shivers. In the darkness, slowly, the evening star rises on the horizon.
Art by Sohana Manzoor
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This poem has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty with editorial input by Sohana Manzoor
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Ishrat looked at the girl staring at her from the computer screen. Smooth and silky dark hair framed a face with wide eyes and lips that curved into a tender smile. According to her bio-data, Raihana Mimi finished her Bachelor’s from Stony Brook three years earlier. Then she did a Master’s in Social Work from UMASS Boston before going back to Bangladesh. Ishrat wondered why the girl liked Asif. At first glance, Asif seemed like an ordinary young man, even if pursuing a PhD in Computer Science. He was not handsome and he carried himself like a bear with a perpetual frown on his forehead. So why this lovely girl took a liking to Asif seemed a mystery to Ishrat. She hoped it wouldn’t end like the affair two years ago. It had broken Asif’s heart, and until very recently he would not hear of marriage.
“She’s very pretty,” Ishrat finally said. “But marriage is a life-long commitment, Asif. Do not marry for the wrong reasons. Do you love her?”
Asif looked at the somber face gazing upon him and smiled sadly. “Love? I thought I was in love the last time I went home. You know the rest.” Both of them went silent reminiscing about the unprecedented series of events that occurred about two years ago when Asif had gone back to Bangladesh to marry the girl he had been planning to wed for years. He came back alone a month later as the girl’s family had refused to allow their youngest daughter to marry him, and his sweetheart accepted the decision made by her family without protest.
Ishrat still remembered the bleak look on Asif’s face when he had asked her after returning from home, “What’s wrong with being fatherless, Apa[1]? And is an American passport essential for marriage? Tania’s uncle told me to get a US passport and then ask for their daughter’s hand in marriage.”
Ishrat couldn’t tell him that the marriage mart in Dhaka was a fish market. Most people with assets in the capital city would turn up their noses at someone like Asif whose father had died leaving his children still struggling to make a place for themselves. Instead, she had said, “It’s better that this match didn’t work out, Asif. Obviously, the girl didn’t care enough to stand up for you. I’m sure that you have a better person waiting for you in the future.”
“I told you Apa, she got married last year, didn’t I?” asked Asif.
“Who? Tania? Yes, you did. But Asif, I hope you are not planning to get married just because you want to show off that you’ve got a better wife,” said Ishrat with a frown. “Raihana is surely prettier than Tania and more accomplished. But just that would be a wrong reason for getting married.”
Asif shook his head. “That’s not why I want to marry Mimi. I’ve been talking to her for a few months now. She seems. . . how to put it. . . very mature, level-headed and practical. Has a lot of good sense,” he paused and then added, “something Tania never had.”
Ishrat asked again, “So, how does your family take it? I thought your mother had somebody in mind?
“That was years ago,” Asif said. To him, Kakon was just a next-door girl, the daughter of her mother’s best friend. It was a plan hatched by the mothers. He and Kakon never discussed this. There was never an occasion. “My sisters have already paid Mimi’s family a visit. And Mimi’s eldest brother and one of her sisters went to my elder sister’s house to meet my mother. Anju Apa is complaining even though Laiju is quite taken in.”
Ishrat nodded, “What does Laiju say?” Laiju was Asif’s younger sister, and not sentimental like Anjuman.
Asif smiled. “She says that Mimi seems friendly and sensible. Even though Anju Apa pulled a long face in front of everybody, she didn’t take offense. When Laiju apologised on her behalf to Mimi she said that she didn’t mind. People say a lot of things during such negotiations. It’s not wise to hold on to them.”
Ishrat nodded approvingly. “That sounds like uncommonly good sense to me. Marriage is a complex business though. Since you two like each other, you must keep a level head.”
*
Hamida Khatun looked helpless as her eldest daughter ranted about her brother’s marriage. “You’ll see that it will come to no good. That girl’s family is way better off than ours. Two of her sisters are settled in the US. And you still want him to marry her?”
“And how do you propose that I stop it, Anju?” asked Hamida. “You heard him. He is determined to have her.”
“I still don’t understand what was wrong with Kakon,” grumbled Anjuman. Kakon was their neighbour from their hometown in Khulna. They had known her since childhood. Kakon’s mother, Nahar, and Hamida once made plans to get their children married. But Asif was always busy with other things and once he went off to Dhak to study at BUET[2], he changed altogether. He fell in love with a girl named Tania who practically abandoned him at the altar. After that Hamida had tried to incline him toward Kakon once more. But Asif did not budge. At one point he told his mother, “If you nag like this, I will marry an American girl and never return home.” That sealed her mouth as Asif knew it would.
Hamida heaved a sigh and said, “Look, daughter, I don’t have a choice in this. If he can’t marry this girl, I’m afraid he will marry an American Christian girl. Do you want that?” Anju looked up at her mother, horrified. “You must be mad! What will our relatives say? American! And Christian too!”
“What do I care about our relatives?” asked an irritated Hamida. “Their tongues have been wagging since your father died. I just want my son to marry well and be happy.”
Anjuman grimaced. She was sure that this rich girl will only bring trouble for their family.
At this point, Laiju entered the room with a bundle of shopping bags in hand. She was buoyed up by the upcoming wedding of her only brother. Many of their close relatives had already arrived in Dhaka. She and her mother were staying in Rampura where Anjuman lived with her husband and two children.
Laiju looked at her elder sister keenly and said, “I don’t understand why you’re making such a big deal. I like Mimi Bhabi already. She is not like those typically snobbish rich girls. On the contrary, she seems very nice and sensible.” She paused and then added, “The kind of scene you made at their house! ‘I know our brother will be taken away from us after his marriage’—That was poor taste, Apa. I would have been mad if I was in her place.”
Anju shuffled uneasily and Hamida nodded gravely. “Yes, that was really bad.”
Laiju was about to say something more when they heard a commotion outside. Several voices were shouting, and one gruff voice most of all.
“I need to talk to Bhabi[3]. Where is she? This is insufferable and totally unacceptable. . .”
“Oh no, that’s Chhoto Chacha[4]!” groaned Laiju. As soon as she uttered the name, a dark burly man entered the room.
Without preamble he said, “Did you buy a saree for my wife? The eldest son of our family is getting married—where is the saree for his Chhoto Chachi?”
“We got sarees for everyone,” said Laiju. “And of course, Chhoto Chachi has got one too.”
“You call that a saree?” sneered their uncle. “That’s a gamchha[5]! If my brother was alive…”
“Unfortunately, he is not,” Laiju interrupted. “And his son is still a student. If you don’t like the saree we got for your wife, go and buy one yourself. Do you ever get anything for her?”
“You have such a foul mouth! No respect for elders at all!” growled Chhoto Chacha. He turned to his sister-in-law and bellowed, “I won’t come to the wedding, Bhabi. And I won’t allow my family to attend either.” He stormed out of the room. They heard him slam the front door shut.
Hamida Khatun heaved another sigh. “When will Asif come? I can’t take all this any longer. My poor boy! Nobody to give him peace of mind.”
Anjuman dried her eyes and said, “I won’t give you any more trouble. I, too, will keep away from the ceremony. . .” she stopped as her mother’s eyes started gleaming ominously. Laiju said, “For once, Apa, please act your age. How long will you behave like a 15-year-old?”
“What did I say?” asked a nervous Anjuman.
“You will act like a proper, respectable elder sister,” said Hamida quietly. “If I hear you babbling like a fool, I will leave your house. Just because we’re staying in your flat, don’t assume that you can do and say whatever you want. If necessary, I will rent a place and conduct the marriage ceremony from there. Understood?”
Anjuman eyed her mother with a newly found apprehension. Laiju gaped at her mother too. Then recovering herself she said half-laughing, “O dear! I didn’t know you could talk like that! You should take on that tone more often, Amma[6]. Chhoto Chacha will never dare to say anything again.”
*
“I still don’t understand why she has chosen that guy,” Gulshan Ara grumbled. “He looks more like an ape than a human being.”
Her fourth daughter Moni shook her head. “Ma, you’ve said that at least ten times.”
“So?” asked Gulshan Ara. “Your headstrong little sister doesn’t pay heed to anything I say. She has her heart set on that ape.” She stopped and lowered her voice. “You and I are the only two with good sense. Even Muhib and Moin are taken in.”
“I’m more worried about his family,” said Moni. “Remember how the elder sister spoke?”
“I can’t understand why you’re so worried about the family,” said a third voice. Moin had entered the room silently like a cat. “Mimi will be living abroad with her husband. She may have to visit Khulna only once or twice in her lifetime. Honestly, how much trouble can her in-laws cause?”
In the next room of the plush apartment in Dhanmondi, the subject of their conversation was busy wrapping up the gifts for her wedding. She had already brought several sarees for herself. She meant to save at least some money for Asif. She understood that he was still a graduate student and could not be expected to spend a fortune on his bride. He also had nobody to support him with expenses. She insisted that there should be only one ceremony and the expenses should be borne by her family. She used to be indifferent when her family members rejected one suitor after another. But something about Asif made her stand up for him and maneuver her siblings, especially her brothers and eldest sister, into accepting him as a prospective candidate. Asif also went out of his way and visited her two elder sisters in New York. Whatever initial reservations they had about his appearance vanished after meeting him face to face. Both spoke approvingly of him, and Mimi’s parents also gave in reluctantly.
When her sister Moni had asked her what she liked so much about Asif, Mimi avoided a direct answer and asked, “What’s wrong with him? He is a good guy, pursuing higher studies. That’s what you wanted too.” She paused, then added, “Okay, so he is not very handsome. But Mishu Apu’s husband was. Did that help?” Mishu was her second sister who had died a few years ago. Her husband was the most handsome and obnoxious man imaginable. Mishu’s untimely death had cast a perpetual gloom on their family.
Moni wrung her hands, “No, but…”
“If you people continue like this, I may never get married, you know,” Mimi had said, half-teasingly. “I’ll be thirty in November.”
Mimi counted the boxes and eyed the suitcase carefully. These were mostly things for her in-laws. They still had not got anything for Asif who was arriving in Dhaka that very afternoon. The two of them had planned to do the shopping for their wedding clothes themselves. Asif’s mother already had the jewelry. Apparently, she had them made three years ago, which proved to be an excellent decision.
Asif’s elder sister Anjuman and Mimi’s mother had been raising a hue and cry over every little thing. Anjuman took it to her head that her brother’s wife should have her nose pierced, and Asif should give her a diamond studded nose-pin. Mimi let Asif handle that. Both of them had discussed the situation and decided to largely ignore their comments and avoid unreasonable suggestions without being directly offensive. Asif seemed to rely a lot on her judgment, which Mimi appreciated.
She remembered when her eldest brother’s wife had shown her Asif’s Facebook page. “He’s so funny, Mimi. Just take a look! Says he has all A’s in everything except in his love life. There he has an F!” Mimi had smiled, but somehow it didn’t appear funny to her. She still thought Asif shouldn’t have put such personal information on Facebook, but it pulled a string at her heart. She knew exactly how it felt to get an F in love. She wondered where Dipak was, and if he was still looking for a pretty face with a ton of money. Mimi’s family was very affluent and that turned out to be his main reason for pursuing her. Dipak was gone from her life forever, and Mimi had no intention of bringing him back.
Once upon a time she held Dipak dear, but now she shuddered to think what might have happened if they had been married. He was making advances on three girls at the same time, and Mimi was one of them. The incident taught Mimi a number of things. She promised herself that she would only marry someone she could trust and would look beyond physical appearance. She may never have love, but she would also never feel humiliated or pitied.
*
When Asif and Mimi finally met in person, it was the most unromantic situation possible. His flight was delayed, and he arrived three hours late. After assuring his nervous mother, a pouting elder sister, and an over-enthusiastic younger one, he reached his future in-laws’ house around 9 p.m. along with two uncles and a cousin. He looked tired and harassed, in a crumpled purple shirt and khaki pants. Mimi’s parents were a bit awkward, but her brothers were very cordial as they had heard glowing reports about Asif from their sisters in New York.
While the others were talking, Mimi observed her intended husband surreptitiously. She almost smiled at his attire—he was so unpretentious. Obviously, he was more worried about keeping his engagement than his appearance. She noticed that he also looked at her once in a while, and realized with a jolt that he wished, just as she did, to talk to her, to be away from this crowd, just to be by themselves. Mimi was surprised at her own reaction—she had known this man for only a few months, and yet she longed to be with him. She tried to concentrate on the conversation and heard that they were discussing her Kabin. Asif was saying, “Whatever you decide is fine with me. I won’t be able to pay it right away, though, as I am still pursuing higher studies.”
Her eldest brother Muhib said, “Of course, we understand as much. Will 10 lakhs be too much for you?”
At this point, her mother spoke up. “I won’t allow my daughter’s Kabin[7] to be less than fifteen.”
“Fifteen!” someone in Asif’s party gasped. “Fifteen lakhs is too much! Even ten is a lot.”
Everyone in the room shifted uncomfortably while Gulshan Ara sat straight and glared at Asif with animosity. Mimi was about to pinch her brother Moin when Asif said in a quiet voice, “Whatever you say, I will accept. It’s your daughter we are discussing, after all.”
Even Mimi gaped at Asif. As everybody in the room started talking once again, Mimi realised that Asif’s move was the best possible strategy. Gulshan Ara would not complain any more. And Asif was not in serious trouble because he did not have to pay the amount right away. She didn’t know how Asif’s family would take it, though. She promised herself that she would always try to make things easier for him. He didn’t have any idea how rich her family was. He wanted to marry her.
*
The wedding reception was held at a posh restaurant in Dhanmondi. Asif sat on the stage and watched his bride smile and greet the guests who approached them. She was as beautiful as a fairy, thought Asif. Wise and kind too.
Then Asif saw his Chhoto Chacha approaching the stage and he said a swift prayer so that nothing disastrous happened. His uncle addressed Mimi, “The others are saying that the food is good. But I felt it was aida.” He looked triumphantly at Asif, as if saying, “You can’t fool me!” Mimi also looked at Asif, not knowing what aida meant. Asif hastily said, “That was kachchi biriyani, Chacha. It is the standard food for weddings in Dhaka. But we will have a reception in Khulna too. You can have your menu there with your favourite fish.” Chhoto Chacha nodded, looking pleased. “You have a pretty wife,” he said approvingly, “much prettier than your mother ever was.” He walked away. Asif heaved a sigh of relief.
Kachchi Biriyani. From Public Domain
Mimi whispered, “What’s aida?”
“I’ll explain later,” mumbled an embarrassed Asif. How could he say that aida meant food that has been half-eaten by somebody else? Basically, it suggested that the guests had not been properly treated.
Then came Asif’s friends. They were all laughing and joking. Asif was quite popular among his friends, and they seemed happy about Asif’s marriage and his choice of bride. Mimi had very few friends present—understandable, since she did her bachelor’s in the US. Someone mentioned that they had attended Tania’s wedding the previous year whose husband was a bald man in his forties and held an American passport.
A heavily bejeweled, fat lady appeared before them, and Mimi introduced her to Asif. “This is my Chhoto Mami. Mama[8] couldn’t come as he is in Singapore right now.”
Asif smiled and greeted her. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” the lady said with a broad smile like a crocodile. “You are not very handsome, are you? But then, Rahat was very handsome, and it didn’t help us at all.” She sighed, then added, “Hopefully, you’ll take good care of Mimi.”
Mimi made a face as she walked away. “Sorry about that.”
“Who is Rahat?” asked a puzzled Asif.
“My ex-brother-in-law,” replied Mimi briefly. “I’ll tell you later.”
“You and I both seem to have a fine lot of relatives,” observed Asif. Mimi smiled. “It seems so, doesn’t it?” They smiled at each other, and Asif knew that they would be working as a team. Their relatives wouldn’t be able to make a rift like they did in his parents’ case. He thoughts turned to Tania probably for one last time, and he wished he had never met her. Then he realised that it did not really matter. She was already a distant memory. Asif started to comprehend what Ishrat had meant by marriage being a life-long commitment.
Mimi sat contentedly. She liked her husband, she thought. Fair enough. He was sometimes a little rash, but good-natured. He had also shown himself to be sensitive to her needs. She remembered the scuffle over her wedding saree. They got it from Mansha. It was quite expensive and Mimi did not want to buy it even though she liked it very much. Asif, however, insisted that at least the main wedding saree should be costly, so that everybody was content.
*
Anjuman sat in one corner, still resentful at the turn of events. She looked at her children on stage with their uncle, nodding and smiling at their new aunt. Anjuman wondered how nobody could see what she saw—her only brother slowly moving away from them. She remembered what Laiju had said a few days ago: “He is not the same guy who left Bangladesh 4 years ago. He has changed. He has been leading a different life, his friends and peers are of a different sort. His world has changed, Apa. He couldn’t be happy with someone like Kakon. Don’t you see?”
No, Anjuman did not see. All she saw was a rich and beautiful girl taking her only brother away from them. Her resentment rose higher. She had tried to derail her own husband—to move him away from the influence of his nagging mother. But she had failed. The old woman had died only recently, and her husband still cried like a baby over the loss. And here was this girl, a mere chit of a girl, accomplishing what she could not in nine years. “If only it was Kakon!” thought Anjuman wistfully, their brother would have always been theirs. She did not see why he would be unhappy. What was the duty of a wife? To cook, bear children and maintain the house. Their mother did all this, she herself was doing the same; what more could Asif want? And in spite of all her good looks, what could Mimi give him that Kakon could not? Did he have to sell himself to money?
Somewhere at the back of her mind, Anjuman felt cheated. She felt that her brother got something she never even dreamt of. She saw the light of a different life on Laiju’s face, or even on their mother’s, a light she could not share. She thought of the flat in Rampura where she had so far lived with her husband and children. The 1200 square feet she had been so proud of owning suddenly seemed to have diminished into nothing. Owning a flat in Dhaka did not seem so great anymore as she wondered what kind of a house Asif and his wife would have in the US.
Hamida Khatun noticed the tear-stained face of her elder daughter from a distance and heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank God she realises that they are happy, and she is praying for them,” she thought, and smiled with misty eyes. Her thoughts then flew to the future where she saw herself surrounded by grandchildren. She did not see even the flicker of any dark shadow on the bright stage where her son gazed lovingly at his bride.
[7] Marriage registration fees determined by the dowry
[8]Mami is wife to mother’s brother referred to as Mama
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Sohana Manzoor is a writer and academic from Bangladesh, with a PhD in English from Southern Illinois University Carbondale. Her works have appeared in Bellingham Review, Eclectica, Litro, Singapore Unbound, Borderless Journal, and elsewhere. She was the Literary Editor of The Daily Star from 2018- 22. Currently, she is pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing at UBC, Vancouver.
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