Title: The Tree Within: The Mexican Nobel Laureate Octavio Paz’s Years in India
Author: Indranil Chakravarty
Publisher: Penguin Random House India
‘For me, India was an accident.’ – Octavio Paz
The Mexican Nobel laureate poet and essayist Octavio Paz (1914-1998) was a writer of lightening insights and electric intelligence. His impassioned poetry is meditative, with a precision of language that is imbued with a strangely sensuous quality. In fact, language and poetry per se were some of his key thematic concerns. The announcement on the cover of this book states that The Tree Within is the enchanting story of Octavio Paz’s passionate love-affair with India where he served as Mexico’s ambassador in the 1960s but reading through this very detailed 518 pages well-researched biography of the Nobel Laureate poet one realises that it is a lot more.
Immersing himself in India’s rich cultural life and contemplative traditions, Paz travelled widely, forged deep friendships with some of India’s finest minds, and produced several of his most inspired poetry and essays. It was here that he met the love of his life and until the day he died, he continued to refer to India as the place where he experienced what he called his ‘second birth’. It is difficult to find similar cases in our history when a major creative figure from abroad drew inspiration from India’s culture for one’s own works over such an extended period. His writings became a bridge between continents, blending Eastern and Western sensibilities in ways that enriched the literary landscapes of both. In India, where the erotic and the sacred blend in ecstatic union – unlike in the West, where the two are scrupulously kept apart – he saw the possibility of a new synthesis through the dissolution of dualities. Interestingly, Mexico belongs to the western hemisphere but is generally considered non-West, like India. Blending biography, cultural history, and literary criticism, The Tree Within is a luminous testament to the enduring alchemy between India and the world through one of the greatest writers of the 20th century.
The book is divided into ten stand-alone chapters, and one can move to the topic of one’s choice. The first two chapters entitled ‘Family and Nation’ (1914-36) and ‘Paz Before India’ (1936-1951) serve as the background of Paz’s lineage, his growing up, and his passionate engagement with India can be understood in terms of the seeds planted early in his life through his family as well as the national cultural ambience where the idea of India was inscribed. All of them played a role in reinforcing his attraction towards the country. Unlike T.S.Eliot, Paz became politically active from an early age, with an initial inclination towards anarchism and Marxism and a subsequent rejection of Communism. He witnessed the Spanish Civil War firsthand, and he also had a close relationship with the surrealists in France.
It is only in the third chapter, ‘The First Sojourn’ (1951-52), that India is physically present when in 1951 Paz, then 37-years old, was assigned the task of opening a new embassy in New Delhi. It recounts his long sea-journey to India and his experiences and poetic output during that brief period of six months. To some extent, he externalised his inner unhappiness on India during his first trip. India of that time had little to offer him by way of intellectual excitement or fulfilling companionship. Things were in disarray when under Nehru as the new nation-state had just been born a few years ago. In New Delhi, Paz stayed at the Imperial Hotel, which became his residence during his entire stay. He also carried a lot of baggage in terms of Western cultural prejudices towards India. India not only smothered his senses; the grinding poverty and rigid mores of life left him disgusted.
In Chapter Four, ‘Paz and Satish Gujral: In Light of Mexico’ describes the personal friendship between Paz and Satish Gujral, one of India’s leading painters and how Paz shaped his development as an artist by inserting Gujral among the maestros of the Mexican mural movement. In fact, the influence of the Mexican mural movement on modern Indian art through Gujral would not have been possible without Octavio Paz’s decision to send him to Mexico. The meeting with Nehru and Indira Gandhi through Satish’s brother I.K. Gujral also offers interesting information. The following chapter, ‘Coming Home, Going Away’ (1953 -62) traces Paz’s life and creative evolution from the time he left India to the time he was sent to India as Mexico’s ambassador in 1962. This ten-year period between his first sojourn in India in 1952 and his return as the Mexican ambassador in 1962 involved many defining moments in his personal and professional life which shaped his creative evolution as a writer. The extent to which he had already immersed himself in Indian philosophy is evident from the ways he assimilated his experiences and insights of his first stay in the writings of the next decade even when their themes had little to do with India.
‘Making Poetry, Making Love’ (1962 -68) is an account of Paz’s travels through the Indian subcontinent (he was given additional charge of Pakistan, Afghanistan, Nepal and Ceylon), his relationship with Bona Tibertelli with whom he spent an idyllic vacation across the Indian subcontinent, his unhappy marriage with Elena Garro, his meeting and eventual marriage with his second wife, Marie-Jose Tramini, and the poetry that grew out of that amorous experience – all find ample space in this chapter. The way in which their love affair unfolded is wrapped in secrecy. It is also said that he developed some unsavoury practices for a man of his position. Nevertheless, it was the most bountiful period of an unimaginably productive life.
Chapter Seven named, ‘The Poet as Diplomat (962-68), recounts his role as a diplomat and his pioneering bridge-building efforts. His life stands as a shining example of how the advantages of diplomatic life can be used for maximizing literary output. The title of the next chapter ‘Paz’s Indian Friends: Surrounded by Infinity’ is self-explanatory. It recounts Paz’s close personal friendships with major Indian painters, musicians, writers and thinkers. We are given details of the close relationship with Indira Gandhi, and Paz throws interesting light on Indira by contrasting her with Nehru: “Indira was concrete and sober. She never forgot the old maxim that politics was the art of the possible…”
Among the literary figures, mention is made of Santha Rama Rau, Nirad C. Chaudhuri, Mulk Raj Anand, Raja Rao, Satchidananda H. Vatsyayan, and many others. The story of Paz’s dramatic resignation in October 1968 over his own government’s massacre of students at the Plaza de Tlateloco is explained by the author through studying archival documents. The next chapter ‘Under Western Eyes: Visiting Writers and Artists’ tells the story of famous international writers, musicians and painters who met Paz in India and forged lifelong bonds and collaborations based on their common love for India.
The final chapter ‘Paz After India’ (1968 -98), traces the continued presence of India-related themes in Paz’s body of work, particularly his prose, ever since his departure from the country. Leaving India was not easy for Paz and Marie-Jose. Over the next three years, he would drift around the world, accepting fellowships, residencies and lecture assignments. Though Indian themes gradually faded out of his poetry, in prose it continued to engage him till his last days, thirty years after leaving India. Even in old age, Paz continued to maintain epistolary contact with his Indian friends and welcomed distinguished Indian visitors to Mexico with his characteristic Latin American warmth. ‘Cantata’ tells the knotty story of Paz’s legacy in Mexico and how India has periodically remembered him, one as late as February 2023, at a large international conference held in IIC[1], New Delhi, on the cultural links between India and Latin America. There was unanimity in the acknowledgement that the Mexican poet had created a permanent, direct bridge between India and Latin America that no state-led enterprise could have done.
Before concluding, a few words need to be said about the author of this book. An academic and a filmmaker by profession, Indranil Chakravarty’s interest in Hispanic literature and culture comes out clearly through the translations he made of Paz’s poems. His enormous labour to bring out this volume comes out in the manner he reconstructs the inner journey of the poet by delving into multilingual archives, declassified diplomatic files, personal letters, and intimate interviews. The labour that has gone into selecting the innumerable photographs that don almost every page of the book, many borrowed from the website zonaoctaviopaz.com (an ongoing repository of photographic and news material on Paz put together by a group of Mexican scholars) clearly exemplifies the author’s emphasis on visual imagery too. In Acknowledgements, he clearly mentions that he has merely tried to fill up the missing information on the poet’s India-years. He entirely agrees with Ramchandra Guha’s contention that an autobiography or memoir must be understood as a pre-emptive strike against a future biographer. The poet’s memoir of India elides most of the aspects that are interesting to us today.
O, incense from rock and root! In the name of God and salutations to the Prophet, I sprinkle you onto the charcoal ember in the incense burner inherited from Elders. Ssseesshh! Ssseesshh! Ssseesshh! Billow across the span of humanity. Sharpen our senses, elevate our spirits, as an adornment of prayers for peace, as an accompaniment of the dead. Send blessings to the world of jinns and humans. The doors of servitude open, the purpose both are created. You are the balm for tormented souls. You welcome the mind into the realm of remembrance. Focus the soul on complete devotion to the One, the only One. Those with vague knowledge only see smoke of superstition, stupefied as rose water is sprinkled.
Ssseesshh! Ssseesshh! Ssseesshh!
O, this servitude is indeed fragrant! O, this worship is indeed mystical and intimate to the One, the Only One. When the kris blade is smouldered by smoke, after washed with lime juice, in the name of God and salutations to the Prophet, the blade is dried and withstands rust, preserving inheritance and the calling. Culture and religion are intertwined, knowledge and understanding of the sacred realm that bless the worlds of jinns and humans. The doors of servitude open, creatures of the One, servants of the only One. O, this servitude is indeed fragrant! O, this worship is indeed mystical and intimate! Ssseesshh! Ssseesshh! Ssseesshh! Allah! Allah! Allah! My Lord!
DEBT
Hey, bestower of pleasure! Hey, the saving hand! I think I have been to hell: My soul is charred by sins, My mind is bombarded by doubt. I have rebelled against Me for fulfilling my desire. I think I have been to heaven: My soul is at peace with gratitude. My mind is still in acceptance. Everything has its place. Everything is measured. I am accepted by Me, mutual and pure. But return my will, return my future, return my entire me to the world and reality, from mere illusion, from every expectation. I want to live. I want to live. I want to live in a bit of doubt, in a pinch of rebellion, to learn by myself, to be in place and measured. Hey, bestower of pleasure! Hey, the saving hand! Let me pay my debt in feelings unsatiated.
THE MOUNTAIN God, smash the mountain in my soul. Obliterate the entire me with your Grace and Love. I could no longer bear the sufferings of alienation.
FIRASAT (Spiritual Intuition)
People nowadays do not know firasat. People nowadays do not use firasat. Purity brought down from Elders— the first intuition without veil, the stirrings and effects of unity of experience: Nature, knowledge, and actions unified, moved by the eye of the soul, nurtured by the discipline of the mind, based on strings of reiterative knowledge, demonstrated by signs from layers of Nature, validated by proofs in actions and breaths. The mind, soul, and spirit moulded in the self and surroundings. Ever since it is compartmentalised by thoughts that distinguish object from subject, dissecting issues to the atom, limiting conclusions and acceptance, denying possibilities and visions, veiling light by separation of knowledge. Is not this world a mirror? Is not this universe a sign? Is not this life a labyrinth? Is not a problem interlinked? Science, philosophy, psychology, history, and religion are only points of view that need to be reunified, that need to be rejuvenated as a whole with stirrings and effects of firasat that will pierce layers of existence, that will open secret doors of the manifest, symbolic, transcendent, and immanent worlds. Are not all that fall from the sky, grow on the surface of the earth, and return to the sky a belief in the unity of everything? So, the dust that floats in the air remembers the moment of attesting of the spirit that is gently blown at the boundaries of seven worlds. "Am I not your Lord?" The Malay testifies in firasat: "Yes, we affirm!"
Isa Kamari has written 12 novels, 3 collections of poetry, a collection of short stories, a book of essays on Singapore Malay poetry, a collection of theatre scripts and lyrics of 3 music albums, all in Malay. His novels have been translated into English, Turkish, Urdu, Arabic, Indonesian, Jawi, Russian, French, Spanish, Korean, Azerbaijan and Mandarin. Several of his essays and selected poems have been translated into English. Isa was conferred the S.E.A Write Award from Thailand (2006), the Singapore Cultural Medallion (2007), the Anugerah Tun Seri Lanang (2009) from the Singapore Malay Language Council, and the Mastera Literary Award (2018) from Brunei Darussalam.
He obtained a BArch (Hons) from the National University of Singapore in 1989, an MPhil (Malay Letters) from Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia in 2008 and is currently pursuing a PhD programme at the Academy of Islamic Studies, Univeristi Malaya. His area of research is on the problem of alienation and the practice of firasat (spiritual intuition) in selected Singapore Malay novels.
The Lost Mantras is a collection that blends spirituality, Malay cultural heritage, and universal human experience. First published as part of Menyap Cinta (Love Greetings, 2022, Nuha Books KL), these poems are like a bridge between mysticism and everyday life, where traditional images (betel, jasmine, kris[1], oil lamps, setanjak[2]) are woven with Qur’anic echoes, prayers, and existential questioning. The collection carries a Sufi resonance—always circling back to longing, humility, surrender, and beauty as signs of God. The poems are not only lyrical but also function as cultural memory: they preserve Malay traditions, communal practices, and village life, while situating them in a cosmic framework of faith, sin, and redemption. The use of Malay customs, rituals, and objects is powerful: it asserts that spirituality is not abstract but embedded in heritage. This makes the collection uniquely Southeast Asian despite its universal in appeal.
Pongal Pot. Photo Courtesy: Ravi Varmman K Kanniappan
On the 15th of January 2026, while much of the modern world was busy checking notifications, updating calendars, and worrying about quarterly outcomes, traditional Tamil households across the globe were doing something far more radical, watching milk boil. “Pongal”, the harvest festival, is one of those ancient cultural practices that stubbornly refuses to modernise. It does not arrive as an app update, cannot be streamed, and has no subscription model.
Milk is poured into a pot, heated patiently, and allowed, indeed encouraged, to overflow. This overflow is not considered inefficiency or waste, but it is the very point. It signifies abundance, wellbeing, and prosperity not merely for humans but for the entire ecosystem that made the meal possible, the sun, the rain, the soil, the cow, and the quiet, unseen labour of nature itself. Rice, lentils, jaggery, nuts, legumes, and raisins follow, and the resulting sweet dish is shared freely among family and friends, because prosperity that is not shared is considered incomplete.
This is an economy based not on accumulation but on circulation, not on profit but on participation. Something I believe is deeply unsettling to modern sensibilities.
Into this defiantly non-consumerist ritual wandered a chickpea with an extraordinarily well travelled past. This was no humble backyard legume, nor had it been picked up at the nearest market. It had sprouted in Mexico, been packed in Lebanon, purchased in Sierra Leone, and generously gifted by my wife Greeja’s friend, Saras, and her husband Pieter, a Belgian whose kindness, like the chickpea itself, clearly knows no borders. The chickpea’s journey to Malaysia, where, after crossing more continents than most humans manage in a lifetime, it finally fulfilled its destiny, being cooked into a traditional Tamil Pongal.
By then this chickpea had crossed more borders than most people ever will, navigated more currencies than a multinational executive, and yet arrived without a single stamp of self-importance. If globalization were ever to seek a spokesperson, it would do well to choose this chickpea, which achieved in silence what conferences and treaties have struggled to explain. The chickpea does not attend Davos, does not publish white papers, does not tweet about resilience or sustainability, and yet it embodies globalisation with a calm confidence that makes economists look unnecessarily stressed.
We often speak of globalisation as though it were invented sometime in the late twentieth century by economists with impressive haircuts and Power Point skills. But the chickpea, unimpressed by timelines, has been global for at least nine thousand years. Its origins lie in the “Fertile Crescent”, that much abused cradle of early civilisations covering modern day Turkey and Syria, where early cultivation was recorded between 7500 and 6800 BCE. The wild ancestor, “cicer reticulatum”, still grows in southeastern Turkey, quietly ignoring the fact that humans have spent millennia fighting over the land around it. From this region, chickpeas spread naturally to the Middle East, the Mediterranean basin, and India by around 3000 to 2000 BCE, becoming a staple across cultures, religions, and cuisines. This was globalisation without shipping containers, trade sanctions, or consultants, just humans carrying seeds because hunger is wonderfully non-ideological.
India, once it encountered the chickpea, embraced it with characteristic enthusiasm and then proceeded to dominate its production. Today, India accounts for more than 70 percent of global chickpea output, a statistic that has made the chickpea an unlikely participant in modern trade wars. Protectionist policies, tariffs, reciprocal duties, and import bans imposed by major players such as India, the United States, and Mexico have transformed this humble legume into a politically sensitive commodity. It turns out that even the simplest food becomes controversial once spreadsheets get involved.
Thiruvalluvar (an ancient philosopher), writing two thousand years ago, anticipated this uncomfortable truth with brutal clarity:
“Only those who live by agriculture truly live; all others merely follow and feed upon them.” - Kural 1033
The verse throws stylish shade at modern life, while we sip lattes under perfect air conditioning and call it “work”, farmers are out there negotiating with the sun, rain, and stubborn soil to keep humanity fed. Our sleek jobs, fancy titles, and glowing screens? Well, they are merely luxury addons. Strip away agriculture and civilisation collapses into a very well-dressed famine. Turns out, all our progress still runs on dirt, with attitude.
The chickpea’s journey to South America, especially Mexico, is a reminder that globalisation has often travelled under less noble banners. Portuguese and Spanish explorers introduced chickpeas to the New World in the sixteenth century, carrying them across oceans as reliable, non-perishable protein sources. From these initial points of contact, chickpeas spread across Central and South America, embedding themselves into local agriculture and diets. In modern times, Mexico has emerged as a significant exporter, specialising in the Kabuli variety prized for its size and quality, with major production zones in Sonora and Sinaloa. Argentina and Chile also joined the club. Thus, a crop born in ancient Anatolia, nurtured in India, and sanctified by ritual, found itself repackaged for global markets, complete with branding, logistics, and regulatory oversight. The chickpea, once again, remained silent.
Silence, however, does not mean insignificance. Homer knew this. In TheIliad (Book 13) he famously compares arrows ricocheting off Menelaus’s armour to chickpeas and dark-fleshed beans flying off a threshing floor in the wind. The metaphor works only because the audience knew exactly how dried chickpeas behave, hard, resilient, and oddly bouncy. By likening lethal weapons to pulses, Homer not only emphasises the strength of the armour but also performs a subtle act of cultural grounding. The epic world of gods and heroes is momentarily tethered to the everyday agricultural reality of farmers winnowing grain. War, Homer seems to say, may be glorious, but it is ultimately sustained by food. Chickpeas, by 800 BCE, were so deeply embedded in Greek life that their sound and movement were universally recognisable. Even epic poetry depended on legumes.
Indian tradition offers an equally revealing, if more logistical, narrative. In South Indian tale associated with the Mahabharata, an Udupi King is said to have managed catering for the massive armies at Kurukshetra. Legend holds that he could predict daily casualties by observing leftover food. In some versions, the king visits Krishna at night, who eats a handful of roasted chickpeas, the number consumed corresponding mysteriously to the thousands who would fall the next day. This allowed precise meal planning and zero waste on an industrial scale of destruction. These divine data analytics allowed the king to cook exactly the right amount of food, avoiding waste on a genocidal scale. It is perhaps the earliest example of just-in-time inventory management, achieved without software, powered entirely by chickpeas and divine omniscience.
If you have ever wondered why Udupi cuisine is famous for efficiency and planning, this story offers a clue. Here, chickpeas function not just as food but as instruments of cosmic accounting.
Interestingly, while early Vedic texts sometimes viewed certain pulses as unsuitable for sacrifice, the Mahabharata period saw chickpeas elevated into sraddha rites (funeral rituals) and daily offerings. They transitioned from questionable to sacred, a promotion many humans would envy.
Thiruvalluvar’s ethical framework accommodates this evolution effortlessly:
“Sharing food and caring for all life is the highest of virtues.”-- Kural 322
A noble idea, until chickpeas quietly steal the spotlight. Modest, beige, and absurdly cooperative, they divide endlessly without complaint and nourish everyone from monks to gym bros. While humans argue ethics in panels and podcasts, chickpeas get on with the job, feeding the masses without ego. In the moral economy of virtue, they don’t preach but they simply multiply and sustain, humbling us one hummus bowl at a time.
Across civilisations, chickpeas became the dependable fuel of endurance. Roman soldiers consumed them as part of their standard rations, boiling them into thick porridge known as “puls” when meat was scarce. Gladiators relied on pulses for strength, earning nicknames that emphasised grain and legume consumption rather than heroism. Spanish and Portuguese sailors trusted chickpeas on long sea voyages because they did not rot, sulk, or demand refrigeration. During World War II, Allied researchers turned again to pulses to address vitamin deficiencies among troops, while the modern Indian Army continues to include chickpea flour and whole chickpeas in field rations due to their high caloric density and reliability. Empires rise and fall, but soldiers keep eating chickpeas.
Modern science, arriving fashionably late as usual, now confirms what ancient armies, monks, and farmers already knew. Chickpeas are celebrated as “brain food,” dense with nutrients that support cognitive function, mood regulation, and neurological health. Nutritional psychiatry highlights their role in reducing inflammation and stabilising the gut brain axis, making them valuable in alleviating anxiety and depression. Unlike the sugar-fuelled spikes and crashes of contemporary diets, chickpeas offer slow-release energy, the kind required for sustained thought, emotional regulation, empathy, and decision making. In a world addicted to instant gratification, caffeine dependence, and burnout worn as a badge of honour, the chickpea is almost offensively patient. That patience makes it profoundly incompatible with modern lifestyles, and incompatibility, in our times, is the surest mark of subversion.
If this sounds like ancient wisdom romanticised through hindsight, it is worth noting that modern civilisation has recently spent billions of dollars rediscovering precisely the same conclusion, often during lunch breaks. Sometime in the post-Covid era, somewhere between a glass walled co-working space and an overbranded café serving ethically sourced air, a young startup founder sat staring at his laptop, attempting to optimise a problem modern life seems uniquely skilled at inventing, how to eat “mindfully” without actually having time to eat. His company was building an AI-driven wellness platform designed to “personalise nutrition using real time biometric feedback.” Investors liked it. The pitch deck had the correct fonts. The valuation was impressive for something that had not yet solved hunger, distraction, or exhaustion.
Lunch arrived in recyclable packaging engineered to survive a nuclear winter. Inside was a bowl labelled Ancient Protein Medley. It contained quinoa flown in from the Andes, kale grown in a vertical farm two kilometres away, avocado sourced from somewhere geopolitically awkward, and, almost as an afterthought, roasted chickpeas. The chickpeas were rebranded as “plant-based protein spheres,” presumably because “chickpea” did not sound sufficiently disruptive, scalable, or fundable.
As the founder ate mechanically between Slack notifications, his smartwatch vibrated with updates. Blood sugar stable. Cortisol marginally elevated. Cognitive focus acceptable. The AI recommended breathing exercises and fewer screens. The founder ignored both and continued eating. The irony was complete. A system powered by cloud computing, global capital, and predictive algorithms had concluded, after millions in funding, that roasted chickpeas were ideal for sustained energy and mental clarity.
This was not new knowledge. Roman soldiers had marched on it. Tamil farmers had lived on it. Sailors had crossed oceans with it. But now it had a dashboard, a graph, and a subscription model.
Later that evening, the same founder attended a panel discussion on sustainability. Someone in the audience asked about regenerative agriculture. The panellists responded confidently, invoking carbon credits, blockchain traceability, lab-grown proteins, and the future of food. No one mentioned legumes fixing nitrogen. No one mentioned soil. No one mentioned that the chickpeas quietly sitting in the founder’s lunch bowl had already done more for planetary health than the entire panel combined. The chickpeas, true to form, offered no comment, no keynote, and no thought leadership, only nourishment.
The chickpea’s journey eastward is no less intriguing. It reached China via the Silk Road, settling primarily in Xinjiang, where evidence of cultivation dates back around two thousand years. There, it became part of Uighur medicinal traditions, prescribed for ailments ranging from hypertension to itchy skin. During the Tang and Yuan dynasties, chickpeas gained prominence as a “cosmopolitan” food, sometimes referred to as the “Muslim bean”. Yet in central China, the chickpea struggled for a distinct identity, often conflated with the common pea even by Li Shizhen[1], the famed Ming dynasty herbalist. Not all travellers are recognised for who they are, some spend centuries being mistaken for someone else.
And yet, through all this travel, confusion, commodification, and conflict, the chickpea remained quietly regenerative. Unlike extractive crops, it forms a symbiotic relationship with Rhizobium bacteria in its roots, fixing nitrogen from the air and enriching the soil. It takes and gives simultaneously, leaving the land better than it found it. This is perhaps the most radical aspect of the chickpea’s philosophy, one that stands in stark contrast to modern economic models based on extraction and exhaustion.
Thiruvalluvar warns us gently but firmly:
“Harm done to others inevitably returns to oneself.” – Kural 319
A warning humans hear, nod at, and immediately ignore. The chickpea takes a cooler approach. It survives by being outrageously generous, throwing itself into curries, salads, and hummus without a trace of resentment. No revenge arc, no ego. Just pure edible goodwill. While we stress over karma and consequences, the chickpea lives its truth, give everything away, become indispensable, and achieve immortality in every lunch bowl.
Humanity today resembles the ancient chickpea, hard, resilient, perpetually defensive. We pride ourselves on toughness, bouncing off crises with admirable persistence, yet rarely ask what we leave behind. Climate change, trade wars, and political upheavals are the shrill winds of Homer’s winnowing floor, tossing us about. The question is not whether we survive the tossing, but whether we enrich the soil when we land. Progress, the chickpea suggests, is not about becoming larger, louder, or more profitable. It is about being regenerative, ordinary, and useful.
In an age obsessed with luxury, consumption, and curated lifestyles, the chickpea offers a quietly subversive model. It is not elite food, but it is the food of soldiers, monks, labourers, and families. It does not advertise, rebrand, or reinvent itself. It simply nourishes.
Thiruvalluvar captures this understated wisdom perfectly:
“From seeds come harvests, and from giving comes abundance.” -- Kural 1030
A line politicians quote solemnly before approving tax breaks for themselves. The chickpea, deeply unimpressed, just does the math. One seed becomes many, then redistributes itself aggressively into every cuisine on earth. No gatekeeping, no merit tests, no ‘personal responsibility’ lecture. While humans weaponise scarcity and call it policy, the chickpea runs a ruthless experiment in abundance and wins, by being cheap, shared, and impossible to cancel. The chickpea has lived this truth for millennia.
So perhaps the real lesson of globalisation does not lie in trade agreements or consumer choices but in a small legume that has travelled from ancient Turkey to modern Mexico, survived Roman marches and mythic wars, endured misnaming and trade barriers, and still ends up quietly nourishing someone’s meal.
Even now, after dashboards have glowed, algorithms have pontificated, and every opinion has been optimised into a performance, the answer remains stubbornly ancient, from Roman roads to Tamil fields. The chickpea does not care about your ideology, your portfolio, or your meticulously curated identity. It will grow, fix nitrogen, feed someone, and move on without a press release.
In a world addicted to spectacle, branding, and moral pontification, this calm, beige indifference feels almost obscene. Quiet competence and unfashionable, the chick pea, turns out to be the rarest, and most outrageously extravagant, luxury left.
The travelled chickpea. Photo Courtesy: Ravi Varmman K Kanniappan
[1] Li Shizen(1518-1593), Ming acupuncturist, herbalist, naturalist, pharmacologist, physician.
Ravi Varmman explores leadership, culture, and self-inquiry through a philosophical lens, weaving management insight with human experience to illuminate resilience, ethical living, and reflective growth in an ever shifting world today.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
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He went for a walk in the salty sea, tripped over a ship, a Spanish galleon.
He went for a stroll in a summer meadow, fell over a horse, a thoroughbred stallion.
And every time he stubbed his toes he shouted, “Oh no! I’m a clumsy giant.”
He went for a saunter in haunted woodland, tripped over a ghost and injured his hand.
He went for a ramble on a deserted beach, slipped on a peach skin, made a hole in the sand.
And every time he stubbed his toes he shouted, “Oh no! I’m a clumsy giant.”
He liked to promenade with a vat of lemonade along the clifftop, not afraid of the drop.
But accidents happen and over he went with a roll of thunder accompanied by clapping.
And every time he stubbed his toes he shouted, “Oh no! I’m a clumsy giant.”
Cyclops Billy was his friend, Cyclops Billy advised him to mend before he went walking again and risked a tripping over monsters and men.
Cyclops Billy is tired of his groans, Cyclops Billy adopted a tone of gentle rebuke to the great fluke, cushioned his bones and proffered him soup.
And every time he stubbed his toes he shouted, “Oh no! I’m a clumsy giant.”
Thank you, Thank you, I feel much better, the giant admitted in a letter, and then he went on his way to take a tour of pastures new, to take a look and see the view, hoping to do so without any hassle.
He climbed a tree higher and higher and reached the top with a skip and a hop and took the look that he desired, saw the sunset all on fire.
He climbed a mountain even higher, reached the summit before he retired, scared the yeti who lived up there until the poor creature lost all its hair.
On an avalanche he descended, soonest broken is soonest mended, crashed into a castle from a storybook, rented by a vampire but owned by a spook.
And every time he stubbed his toes he shouted, “Oh no! I’m a clumsy giant.”
From Public Domain
Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Life By the River by Liu Kang (1911-2004)Kampung Life by Lim Tze Peng (1921-2025)Depiction of Kampung or village life in Singapore more than fifty years ago. From Public Domain
THE BENCH
The melodious magpie on the bamboo twig -- the passing breeze welcomed the chirping. Sitting on a dilapidated wooden bench, under the thick canopy of the mango tree, village folks rested in the shade, calming the tremors of troubled hearts. The hardship evident in the sighs, still hopeful of tomorrow’s dreams, drying the sweat of weariness. Honest earnings chased away worries. A pinch on the thigh, a cry of pain. Laughter and jokes were shared merrily, teasing the maiden sitting by the door, smiling sheepishly, welcoming attention. Recollecting a slice of an old tale, fun and camaraderie were reminisced, firm and amicable bonds were fostered. It’s but a memory. It’s but a memory. It’s but a memory. Now alone in a room, gazing at the handphone screen, chatting aimlessly in social media— do we remember and long for the dilapidated bench, crafting old tales, forging firm and amicable bonds? Do we remember and pine for the maiden sitting by the door?
CUSTOMS
Customs are not like banana fritters coated with rice flour, dipped in hot oil, served instantly, crispy and delicious, eaten warm, accompanied by sips from a cup of black coffee. Customs are like rain that falls on the whims of the weather. It’s always there, although infrequent, temperamental and purposeful, sometimes an inconvenience— plans thwarted— but always invigorating and instils a sense of acceptance. If received with gratitude, directed with perseverance, and tempered with wisdom. Life is beautiful with droplets of grace. Life is fertile with the pouring of bounties. Life is prosperous with love bestowed. Customs make the earth supple. Customs make the village noble. Customs make a people well-mannered. Once in a while, relish a crispy banana fritter and sip warm black coffee while it rains cats and dogs. Momentary disruption of plans, the alleys and roads flooded— moments of reflection, moments of appreciation for the day, is inherent in droplets of grace, inherent in the pouring of bounties, inherent in love bestowed. Shifting of time and signs the soil is tilled with purpose. The village gathers and collectively agrees, the people ready to realise aspirations of good character and respected stature.
SMOKE
Like smoke billowing amidst rubbish, he burns his self-worth, dances in the flames, when the fire is meant to warm breakfast and meals to school. Now like smoke, his children are floating, begging for favours at tips of cigarettes and cars’ exhaust pipes, crushed by confusion in the stifling air. Who would be hungry if the smoke does not billow in the kitchen, and for generations, our humanity returns uncooked to God?
CURSE OF A WARRIOR
Hail the snake and its venom! Call it a callous and rebellious act! Shame be endured, head decapitated! Surrender not, carry the corpse! Foolish is the mind, desperate are the moves. Let death fulfil the curses. Let death be executed by the Angel. Destroy my body, take my soul. The wooden club hit the coffin. Pierce my tongue and neck. Stab my chest, guts dis-embowelled. Blood spurts, life departs. The warrior kisses the earth. Blood turns into pus. Pus turns into ambers of Hell. Let me die so you die. Let us die so everyone dies. I give you my sin, my hurt, my sadness. You’ll bathe in blood.
Isa Kamari has written 12 novels, 3 collections of poetry, a collection of short stories, a book of essays on Singapore Malay poetry, a collection of theatre scripts and lyrics of 3 music albums, all in Malay. His novels have been translated into English, Turkish, Urdu, Arabic, Indonesian, Jawi, Russian, French, Spanish, Korean, Azerbaijan and Mandarin. Several of his essays and selected poems have been translated into English. Isa was conferred the S.E.A Write Award from Thailand (2006), the Singapore Cultural Medallion (2007), the Anugerah Tun Seri Lanang (2009) from the Singapore Malay Language Council, and the Mastera Literary Award (2018) from Brunei Darussalam.
He obtained a BArch (Hons) from the National University of Singapore in 1989, an MPhil (Malay Letters) from Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia in 2008 and is currently pursuing a PhD programme at the Academy of Islamic Studies, Univeristi Malaya. His area of research is on the problem of alienation and the practice of firasat (spiritual intuition) in selected Singapore Malay novels.
The Lost Mantras is a collection that blends spirituality, Malay cultural heritage, and universal human experience. First published as part of Menyap Cinta (Love Greetings, 2022, Nuha Books KL), these poems are like a bridge between mysticism and everyday life, where traditional images (betel, jasmine, kris[1], oil lamps, setanjak[2]) are woven with Qur’anic echoes, prayers, and existential questioning. The collection carries a Sufi resonance—always circling back to longing, humility, surrender, and beauty as signs of God. The poems are not only lyrical but also function as cultural memory: they preserve Malay traditions, communal practices, and village life, while situating them in a cosmic framework of faith, sin, and redemption. The use of Malay customs, rituals, and objects is powerful: it asserts that spirituality is not abstract but embedded in heritage. This makes the collection uniquely Southeast Asian despite its universal in appeal.
Women wearing baju kurongs and men wearing kain sampings. From Public Domain
OIL LAMPS
We did not taste chicken unless it was Hari Raya. Mats laid on the corridor floor in front of ten doors— the barrack houses at the end of Ramadan decorated by oil lamps at each corner. The gloomy village turned bright. Each family brought out trays of varieties of dishes and cakes, the feast welcoming Shawal. The call of prayer from the radio, followed by the hymns to glorify God. Life in the village was indeed harmonious, although sprinkled with misunderstandings, slighted feelings throughout the year. Exchanging delicious food, extending congratulatory wishes, laughter and tears flowed unimpeded. The young proceeded to the field, ignited the fuse of bamboo cannons stuffed with carbide powder fodder. The new moon was welcomed by blasts, claps, and cheers of happiness. Flames of oil lamps swayed in the breeze, resplendent till the morning, before going to the mosque in groups, wearing the baju kurung and kain samping.
THE BENCH
The melodious magpie on the bamboo twig, the passing breeze welcomed the chirping. Sitting on a dilapidated wooden bench, the thick canopy of the mango tree, village folks rested in the shade, calming the tremors of troubled hearts. The hardship evident in the sighs, still hopeful of tomorrow’s dreams, drying the sweat of weariness. Honest earnings chased away worries. A pinch on the thigh, a cry of pain, laughter and jokes were shared merrily, teasing the maiden sitting by the door, smiling sheepishly, welcoming attention. Recollecting a slice of an old tale, fun and camaraderie were reminisced, firm and amicable bonds were fostered. It’s but a memory. It’s but a memory. It’s but a memory. Now alone in a room, gazing at the handphone screen, chatting aimlessly in social media— do we remember and long for the dilapidated bench, crafting old tales, forging firm and amicable bonds? Do we remember and pine for the maiden sitting by the door?
CUSTOMS
Customs are not like banana fritters coated with rice flour, dipped in hot oil, served instantly, crispy and delicious, eaten warm, accompanied by sips from a cup of black coffee. Customs are like rain that falls according to the weather. It’s always there, although infrequent, temperamental and purposeful, sometimes an inconvenience— plans thwarted— but always invigorating and instils a sense of acceptance. If received with gratitude, directed with perseverance, and tempered with wisdom, life is beautiful with droplets of grace, life is fertile with the pouring of bounties, life is prosperous with love bestowed. Customs make the earth supple. Customs make the village noble. Customs make a people well-mannered. Once in a while, relish a crispy banana fritter and sip warm black coffee while it rains cats and dogs. Momentary disruption of plans, the alleys and roads flooded— a moment of reflection, a moment of appreciation of the day, inherent in droplets of grace, inherent in the pouring of bounties, inherent in love bestowed. Shifting of time and signs so the soil is tilled with purpose, so the village gathers and collectively agrees, the people ready to realise aspirations of good character and respected stature.
SIN
Sin is the earth, Sin is the water, Sin is the air, Sin is the fire, moved by a rebellious heart, whispered by a vile intention. Yes, Sin is the arrogance. Yes, Sin is the pawn of power. Yes, Sin is shamelessness. Sin is a human, who is given a will without limits, without pity, who wants to be the reigning deity, who wants to be the undeterred devil: also, a human who chooses to want darkness, wants to cheat, gorge, and be satiated: the snake slithering in dark crevices, the scorpion hiding in an undetected nest, the leech waiting for prey in wetlands. But Sin is the smelly compost that cultivates, the cracked mirror that reflects form, despondent valleys that look up to the summit, tumultuous sea flowing from the openness of estuaries. If the earth, water, air, and fire are cleansed by seven skies, seven rivers, and seven blossoms, moved by a modest heart, whispered by a sincere intention, Yes, the Sin will change to Repentance. Yes, the Sin will change to Obedience. The Sin will become Blissful and Fragrant. Humanity.
Isa Kamari has written 12 novels, 3 collections of poetry, a collection of short stories, a book of essays on Singapore Malay poetry, a collection of theatre scripts and lyrics of 3 music albums, all in Malay. His novels have been translated into English, Turkish, Urdu, Arabic, Indonesian, Jawi, Russian, French, Spanish, Korean, Azerbaijan and Mandarin. Several of his essays and selected poems have been translated into English. Isa was conferred the S.E.A Write Award from Thailand (2006), the Singapore Cultural Medallion (2007), the Anugerah Tun Seri Lanang (2009) from the Singapore Malay Language Council, and the Mastera Literary Award (2018) from Brunei Darussalam.
He obtained a BArch (Hons) from the National University of Singapore in 1989, an MPhil (Malay Letters) from Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia in 2008 and is currently pursuing a PhD programme at the Academy of Islamic Studies, Univeristi Malaya. His area of research is on the problem of alienation and the practice of firasat (spiritual intuition) in selected Singapore Malay novels.
The Lost Mantras is a collection that blends spirituality, Malay cultural heritage, and universal human experience. First published as part of Menyap Cinta (Love Greetings, 2022, Nuha Books KL), these poems are like a bridge between mysticism and everyday life, where traditional images (betel, jasmine, kris[1], oil lamps, setanjak[2]) are woven with Qur’anic echoes, prayers, and existential questioning. The collection carries a Sufi resonance—always circling back to longing, humility, surrender, and beauty as signs of God. The poems are not only lyrical but also function as cultural memory: they preserve Malay traditions, communal practices, and village life, while situating them in a cosmic framework of faith, sin, and redemption. The use of Malay customs, rituals, and objects is powerful: it asserts that spirituality is not abstract but embedded in heritage. This makes the collection uniquely Southeast Asian despite its universal in appeal.
When I was five years old, my father transported our impoverished family from the banks of the Licking River in Eastern Kentucky to Bound Brook, New Jersey, just off a tributary of the Raritan River. My mother had not wanted to leave her beloved Kentucky or depart from her numerous kin there, but she did want to stay married. And my father wanted to find work and get away from anything connected to hollows, moonshine, and that old-time religion. Mother also hoped that she, and especially her four children (with a fifth on the way), would be better off. As it turned out, we children mostly were, while she likely wasn’t.
My father chose Bound Brook, New Jersey, because he planned to work in the trucking business managed by his older brother. In Bound Brook, my father moved us into a place described as “Garden Apartments,” but there weren’t any gardens. It was post WWII housing, mainly for immigrants and working class people who could not afford to buy homes. Since I had been transported from a shack in Appalachia, the two-bedroom apartment in New Jersey, even for parents with five kids, seemed palatial: A bathtub and flush toilet! Hardwood floors! A gas stove and oven! Sidewalks, and even a nearby building for doing laundry. Stupendous, indeed!
Bound Brook, New Jersey, was a town where most people worked in restaurants, retail, construction, trucking, and schools; plus, there were countless employees at a couple of highly polluting chemical plants located just above the west end of town. (Sometimes strange odors and actual particles released from American Cyanamid drifted into our schoolyards, homes and playing fields.) I considered townspeople who were low-level bankers and teachers wealthy. Of course we all knew a few kids whose parents were doctors, high-level bankers, or businessmen. Those were the really rich people who did not live in project-style apartments or in low-income housing in the sections of town populated by immigrant Poles, Italians and Irish, with perhaps a random exotic Cuban or Indian family. It was rare to see a Black person or hear Spanish in Bound Brook in the 1950s.
In Kentucky, my mother was a vibrant woman who worked in the County Courthouse. Living in New Jersey, she devolved into a burdened housewife with no local kin and no capacity to access a new community or social life. When the sixth child was on the way, the apartment management informed my parents that they had to move out because they had too many kids. Our family was given two days to leave or pay an extra month’s rent, and regardless, we were being evicted. It happened that there was some new home construction on our west end, near a brook that occasionally overflowed its banks. I knew about the development because we local children frequented the site to steal plywood, tarpaper, and nails to construct lean-tos down the brook. We also nabbed construction cable, which the big kids affixed to tree limbs to make sturdy “Tarzan” swings for sailing from bank to bank across the brook.
At age eleven, I surreptitiously joined a group tour of the model home in the completed new development, where the available space and the fancy furniture smote me. I raced back to our apartment to tell my mother about the model house, and she sent my father over to take a look. Fortuitously, he ran across a salesperson that informed him that as a veteran of WWII, he qualified for mortgage and down payment assistance. Child number six arrived shortly after we moved into one of the newly constructed homes in the development. Then, deep into the following year, my Mother delivered my youngest brother, child number seven. Our new house afforded a shared bedroom for me and my two younger sisters, and an elongated attic room for the four boys.
Sadly, as the duration of her stay in New Jersey and the number of kids in our family increased, my Mother’s mental state diminished. She went from intimidation and apprehension about her life in Bound Brook to what could have been clinically diagnosed as agoraphobia and paranoia. In Kentucky she had been a proud and self-confident woman; in New Jersey she was increasingly unkempt, unhinged, and functionally disabled. I remember having to fake her signature on my report card and school permission slips because she was too distracted to sign or even look at paperwork; in fact, she opted out of most any activity not related to basic household management and cooking.
Without filtering her outbursts, my mother jabbered with religious fervor about her afflictions and her rage at our father who had brought her to New Jersey. She lamented that she would not live long enough to see us grow up. She sang sad and sometimes-scary gospel tunes like, “The Old Rugged Cross,” with lyrics about suffering and shame. She also warned us about rich “Republican snakes” that didn’t care about poor people, and dangerous immigrants with funny-sounding names who spoke strange languages (Polish, Italian). She denigrated both poor Black people and neighbouring Jewish people who didn’t love Jesus the way that she did. And she did love Jesus, and the church, even though she thought church people up North dressed too fancy, sang without spirit, and passed the collection plate with too many expectations. She loved us kids unconditionally, while often relying upon us for the basics of daily living. She was unhappy in her marriage and with living in New Jersey, but she was proud of her children, despite her disappointment when most of us went hippie and unchurched and, worse, two voted Republican.
Sports events and churches consolidated the people in the town of Bound Brook. Officials and functionaries would save your soul if you let them, and, if you were male, tone your body. My brothers were better than good enough at sports, which won them friends, attracted mentors, and enabled them to acquire college scholarships.
I was an excellent gymnast, runner, fielder, and could handle baseballs, basketballs and footballs as well as many boys. And I could maneuver a cable swing and play ping-pong better than most boys. At an inter-school Sports Field Day, I won all six of the proffered blue ribbons. Nonetheless, I didn’t get scholarships, rewards, or accolades. Instead I was mocked as a tomboy for wearing sports attire, and teased as a “skinny-bones” because I didn’t eat or grow much. After leaving rural Kentucky where I was used to drinking raw milk, the New Jersey pasteurised milk did not taste right, and my mother was reduced to serving canned vegetables and mystery meat from a supermarket. I hated the ground meat, hot dogs, and strange overcooked vegetables she served up. So I mostly didn’t eat. At a time when women were expected to be voluptuous and alluring, I was lean and agile. I hated New Jersey.
In fact, I never embraced living in NJ the way I “owned” my early years in Eastern Kentucky and my adult years in New York City. My best friend Janice said whenever she told people she was born in New Jersey, they laughed. She even wrote a song about that. I wasn’t born in New Jersey, but had enough of it imposed upon me to understand the song. Although there were plenty of kids to play with and make “fun trouble” with in the apartments and in our new housing development, I was bullied by big (literally) girls in the neighbourhood, and spurned at school by stylish girls from the better-heeled households. To survive, I became fleet of foot and quick of tongue, able to either run away from dicey situations or talk my way out of them. I fully realised I had to get out of Bound Brook, New Jersey.
In the interest of fairness, I must report that in the late 1950’s and early 1960’s Bound Brook had excellent schools and recreation facilities. Unfortunately, I had not attended any school in Kentucky, so, upon entering elementary school for the first time, I was both shy and academically lost. I also suffered from undiagnosed dyslexia, so I didn’t learn to read until almost 6th grade and never learned to write script, to the chagrin of teachers charged with improving me. Self-conscious about my “hillbilly” accent, I also did not talk at school, a definite deterrent to making friends and getting teacher approval.
I finally caught up by playing and sparring with the kids on the west end, many of whom had worse family situations than me and had the kind of personal and academic issues that were not going to resolve with time. (Being a west end kid certainly informed me that the required “Dick and Jane” school readers did not represent most families.) By the end of fifth grade I could read slowly, print neatly, and participate orally in classes. Best of all, I learned about the local library where I took refuge and read about places and events beyond what I was exposed to at home or in school. I was determined to find a way out of New Jersey.
By high school I was considered one of the smart students who was also a discipline problem. I understood socio-economic differences and realised (without knowing the specified words) that I was from a home with domestic abuse and child neglect. We kids were essentially on our own because our mother had checked out mentally and our father was irritable, sullen and mostly absent. (His absence was a good thing, considering his PTSD rage disorder from WWII.) Never really fitting in either at school or in the neighborhood, I engaged in bravado and resentment to camouflage my fears and vulnerability.
While most of us west end kids were petty thieves and street combatants, my weapon of choice became wit. I assailed bad teachers with derision, mockery, and scorn, refusing to cave to silly authoritarian directives and relentlessly challenging their biased views or misinformation. In short, I was learning about and exposing racism (then called “prejudice”) and political manipulation (still called “patriotism”).
The good and honest teachers admired my audacity and laughed at my antics, but the bad teachers were threatened and became vindictive. I teamed up with Grace, a classmate from the neighbourhood. She came from a single parent household (rare for Bound Brook in the early 1960’s), and lived in one of those so-called garden apartments with her mother. Suffice it to say, Grace and I created a lot of “smart trouble” at school. Soon we were not allowed to be in the same classroom. Worse, despite my qualifying grades, I was barred from the National Honor Society and kicked out of senior English. I had to report to the guidance office where I befriended the guidance counselor, who arranged for me to graduate despite my not completing the English requirement. This all probably happened because English was my best subject, and I was beginning to nurture my lifetime commitment to human rights and civil rights. I held New Jersey in contempt.
I desperately wanted to get out of Bound Brook and away from my home life, but I had no information, experience, or resources to facilitate those yearnings. I had never even traveled to another town by bus or train.
Toward the end of my senior year, I got work at the local recreation center, where I met a woman who was attending Montclair State College. (At the time, Montclair was the best of the New Jersey State colleges.) My older brother was putting himself through Rutgers State University, where female applicants were relegated to their Douglas College campus, close enough to Bound Brook to have required me to live at home and commute. At the last minute, I mailed an application to Montclair State and got a late acceptance with a State Scholarship that covered the $150 annual tuition, without which I could not have attended. Best of all, I was required to find housing near the college, away from home.
I had managed to escape Bound Brook but not New Jersey. I only had enough savings to live off-campus and attend college for one year, so I was prepared to drop out when President Lyndon Johnson saved me by signing the Economic Opportunity Act. Based on family income, I was part of the first wave of acceptances. Yes, to socialism and good government! I was grateful and shocked to receive money for housing, books and general spending.
Moving onto the 7th floor of a new dormitory with a stunning view of the New York City skyline, I rejoiced. Furthermore, because of Montclair State’s proximity to New York City, I was able to partake of a broad liberal education in the arts and sciences. I could actually envision departing New Jersey, so I vowed never to use Bound Brook as my mailing address again. (As it turned out, my instincts were correct: the two of our seven siblings who remained in Bound Brook eventually voted unabashedly for Donald J. Trump.)
Still, my transition out of New Jersey was a long and winding road. I returned to the State (though not to live in Bound Brook) a couple of times for temporary work or educational opportunities, and I never abandoned my New Jersey family or friends. My escape route led me to explore living in Berkeley, California; Bangkok, Thailand; Hiroshima, Japan; Honolulu, Hawaii, and, finally, to settle permanently in Greenwich Village in New York City. My daughter was raised as a proudly triumphant New Yorker.
It was, therefore, not exactly serendipitous that in my early 70s I returned to the place of my former captivity: the state of New Jersey. My choosing a late-life summer residence in the Garden State just kind of happened. My sister and I had been looking in Cape Cod, Massachusetts for places to rent or buy near the ocean, bay or sound. At the time, I was living alone in New York City and Karla lived in Massachusetts. I wanted a get-away place; she was seeking a year-round home. After a couple of thwarted attempts and some financial reality testing, we conceded we could not afford Cape Cod.
Back in New York, we investigated numerous beach towns, with similar financial results. Then, in the New York Times, I read that Asbury Park, on the north coast of the New Jersey shore, was undergoing massively successful development. With more trepidation than excitement, Karla and I hopped on New Jersey Transit to check out the Asbury Park options. We were in the habit of referring to our old home State as “New F*cking Jersey” and reassured each other that “Down the Shore” is not the same thing as NFJ!
From my youth and during the early days of my marriage, New Jersey towns along the ocean were not unfamiliar to me. In the 1980’s, my husband and I had joined resources with our New York City friends to rent summerhouses in towns close to the ocean. We were emulating our previous summer rentals in the Hamptons, except none of it was like the Hamptons or Amagansett. It was New Jersey.
The Garden State has the shore, not snooty beach towns. You go “down the shore,” not to the beach. The Jersey shore is much cheaper than the Hamptons, but also has far less cache. Thankfully, most of the Jersey Shore is also not like the TV series of that name, at least in the experience of my friends, who were college professors, psychotherapists, artists, or in media-related professions.
In the late 1980’s the shore rentals in New Jersey were affordable, the commute was a dream, and the ocean was fabulous, even if the food and entertainment were not top notch. Of course this was the early days of Bruce Springsteen, so we knew about the Stone Pony, but the town and boardwalk areas of Asbury Park were a wreck. We also knew that next to Asbury Park was an odd little town called Ocean Grove, which was developed and managed by the Methodist Church Camp Meeting Association. The church people did not allow driving on Sunday or the sale of liquor at any time. Entry to the beach was blocked until noon on Sunday mornings. (You were supposed to be in church at that time.) At best, we New Yorkers, many Jewish and all borderline atheists, thought this Ocean Grove place was endearingly bizarre.
We stuck to upscale towns like Spring Lake for our summer rentals. By 1992, when I was 47 years old, we ended our group rentals in New Jersey and eventually most of the friends and their marriages dissipated.
It was not until 2016, when I was 71-years-old, that my sister Karla and I sadly discovered, on a sweltering summer day, that the newly renovated Asbury Park was also not affordable. Dismayed, we crossed an inviting footbridge in Asbury that led to the Ocean Grove side of the Wesley Lake estuary. Meandering around the quiet, spiritually immersed town, we noted the striking contrast to bustling Asbury Park.
Needing a cool down, we spotted an air-conditioned realtor’s office and inquired, without enthusiasm, about properties near the ocean. The prices were considerably cheaper than Asbury and the town was charming, but could we contend with the controlling Methodists? (Certainly our Mother would have approved!) The realtor patiently showed us a couple of listings on the market, but none were very appealing.
As an afterthought, probably because she was kind, it was a slow day, and we were likeable, the agent mentioned that next door to her home was a large Victorian house that had been converted to condos a couple of decades ago. The gaudy blue structure was facing the ocean and included a small 2-bedroom apartment, which had been languishing vacant and unsold for about ten years. We asked to see it, and despite the heat, the realtor agreed to climb over thirty steps in the giant house to show us an unpolished, but fully furnished, top floor unit. A series of convoluted real estate and legal processes that dragged out for a year (plus simple naive luck) enabled us to purchase this condo in the turret (meaning attic) of a magnificent old house, with ocean views throughout. Yes, it was located in Ocean Grove, NEW JERSEY!
Nowadays, I very much enjoy spending my summers down the shore, gazing at the sea from our New Jersey condo and happily catching waves in the buoyant salty water. (Fortunately, my sister lives there year-round to help maintain it.) It is indeed ironic that lacking finances, but having good fortune, delivered me “down the shore” for the summers of my elderhood. Have I come to terms with NFJ? Recently, I had lunch with a nephew visiting me in New York City. When he nonchalantly asked if I ever considered living year-round down the Jersey shore, I let out a resounding, “NOOO!”
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Karen Beatty’s work appears in over 30 publications, including Chicken Soup for the Soul, Books Ireland, Non Binary Review, and Mud Season Review. Her novel, Dodging Prayers and Bullets, was published in 2023.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Flowers of Binjai Binja or White MangoFrom Public Domain
A SONG OF THE WIND
I surrender my body and soul to smoke, steam, and mist, which I gather with one last fibre of strength. Listen to this lonesome song, for the sun is envious of my existence. This life yearns for separation; frailty is only human. Ballads after ballads you would know. An honest young man is always chided for his age. The unending love of parents sometimes makes them act as dictators. If you feel life as silkworms dreaming of freedom, just remember your wings have broken the moment you willingly accept the smoothness of silk. If the clouds are too heavy for the roof of your home, call the wind, summon the earth. Then you would taste the sweetness of charity. But remember, a barren land sometimes is best left barren, for art also seeks justice. Proclaim, but do not claim, for your worth is still in a balance. As life is a bountiful gift, be discreet in giving alms, but you must be brave to challenge, although it means you have to burn a piece of love letter. For God is closer than your jugular vein. I come to you from a dusty journey where I gather smiles from smoke, steam, and mist. Listen to this lonesome song for a while, for I am envious of the ensuing dusk.
MOTHER
Oh, Allah, I know of your Love from the binjai which she craved for— a slice from the only fruit plucked by a neighbour. I know of your Mercy from the warmth of the womb that protects a soul, a frail presence in want of a mouthful of rice mixed with soy sauce and fried fish, under the thick foliage of the tree of Time, offering shade to the unfolding age. The moment she left to meet You, the tree of Hope fell; the kingdom of the Hereafter shook in my soul. Parting will ultimately lead to meeting again. Only to You I surrender, begging for your love for Mother— a straight path tracing her footsteps; asking for your mercy for Mother— which overrides your wrath over my life astray; seeking your gentle affection, as warm as Mother’s fingers.
TWEET
The chirping has escaped the cage. The chirping is free; the trap is empty. The chirping is returned and received. The chirping is delirious on the rotten branch. Your tail searches for the nest, Your claws clench the twigs, Your wings sift the wind, Your beak catches the worm, Your eyes survey the rainbow. Hey you, the bird which has escaped! Hey you, the bird which is free! You bring along the cage in your flight. The trap awaits your return. If your tail is not guided by faith, If your claws are not holding on to good deeds, If your wings are not spreading grace, If your beak is not chirping gratitude, If your eyes are not seeking redemption— Your song is a caged cry, Your tweet is a prisoned anguish. The resplendent feathers that you show off are hiding a sadness as wide as the sky.
THE TRAIN
The door will close. If religion is the track, it does not determine the path and destination for commuters. They board and alight at different stations, not the one, not the only one, not the same always. Religion is like a map; it does not make life boring, does not block a journey, shows the path anywhere you go, not the one, not the only one, not the same always. We are not carriages that do not have choices. Just make sure the meandering path is fun and secure, the last stop safe and peaceful. The door will close. The One awaits there, wherever it is.
The inside of a binjai mango. From Public Domain
Isa Kamari has written 12 novels, 3 collections of poetry, a collection of short stories, a book of essays on Singapore Malay poetry, a collection of theatre scripts and lyrics of 3 music albums, all in Malay. His novels have been translated into English, Turkish, Urdu, Arabic, Indonesian, Jawi, Russian, French, Spanish, Korean, Azerbaijan and Mandarin. Several of his essays and selected poems have been translated into English. Isa was conferred the S.E.A Write Award from Thailand (2006), the Singapore Cultural Medallion (2007), the Anugerah Tun Seri Lanang (2009) from the Singapore Malay Language Council, and the Mastera Literary Award (2018) from Brunei Darussalam.
He obtained a BArch (Hons) from the National University of Singapore in 1989, an MPhil (Malay Letters) from Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia in 2008 and is currently pursuing a PhD programme at the Academy of Islamic Studies, Univeristi Malaya. His area of research is on the problem of alienation and the practice of firasat (spiritual intuition) in selected Singapore Malay novels.
The Lost Mantras is a collection that blends spirituality, Malay cultural heritage, and universal human experience. First published as part of Menyap Cinta (Love Greetings, 2022, Nuha Books KL), these poems are like a bridge between mysticism and everyday life, where traditional images (betel, jasmine, kris[1], oil lamps, setanjak[2]) are woven with Qur’anic echoes, prayers, and existential questioning. The collection carries a Sufi resonance—always circling back to longing, humility, surrender, and beauty as signs of God. The poems are not only lyrical but also function as cultural memory: they preserve Malay traditions, communal practices, and village life, while situating them in a cosmic framework of faith, sin, and redemption. The use of Malay customs, rituals, and objects is powerful: it asserts that spirituality is not abstract but embedded in heritage. This makes the collection uniquely Southeast Asian despite its universal in appeal.
Hey, the morning breaks! Hey, the faithful sun! Hey, the disappearing dew! Hey, the layered air! The breath desires, the soul asks: Who do you greet? Have you pondered, sons of Adam? Death awaits, life prolongs. Have you realised, progenies of Eve? The earth is impregnated and layered by purpose. The one that you welcome is the morning, The one that you coax is the sun, The one that you touch gently is the dew, The one that you breathe is the air. The gift of death, life fulfilled, accompanies the inevitable: morning, sun, dew, and air. A breath dissipates, a soul obliterates. Nothingness. Gone. Hey!
THE FIELD
The green grass is a mother’s heart, the velvet of love for her children. Although stepped upon by mischief and transgression, she distils dews of hope that her children would grow with the sun. The earth is the preparation of a father: soil and compost for his children where character would be rooted. Barren or fertile, he digs into his responsibility and self-worth, as long as the rain nourishes his age. Grass flowers are the children who only know the joy of the wind for as long as their dreams have not landed on earth and kissed the grass.
MOLTEN EARTH
This moment, we’re walking in the rain, accompanied by a bluish rainbow and red birds with purple blood. If they’re heading towards the dais, we have yet to embrace the longing. When the moon is in tears, it’s just ill-suited for us to sail on the orange henna sea. In truth, we verily love the eagle that flies in the desolate morning. If not for ravens like you, our forest would be infested with rabbits. Give us white wings; we want to fly with blue birds that return to reciprocate love. We want to taste milk. Is it for us only urine, the manifestation of love by dogs? Sound your prayer call in our shacks so that our tears are not just to bear the pain and bitterness of a plate of rice. If your pensiveness is just to reminisce the sufferings of night longing for day, our tears have flowed from the earth’s molten belly, which are stepped upon by saints like you and them who have cast curses upon us wretched souls.
POTPOURRI
The screw pine thrives on damp soil, next to the swampy pond. It spreads its green in the wild; roots clench the earth we tread upon. The jasmine grows on the lawn, marks the boundaries of property. Sturdy branches, leaves flourish; petals open, greet the clouds. The sliced screw pine in a receptacle, the jasmine blossoms spread on the tray, perfume sprinkled to enhance the scent: the potpourri of bunga rampai welcomes guests. The ceremony officiated by the qadi, the couple duly married, customs and culture celebrated in fragrance, religious laws honoured on the dais. The shaving of the baby’s head, first steps on the soil, the coffin carried to the grave— the potpourri of bunga rampai adorns every domain, binding firmly entire life’s moments.
Bunga rampai — fresh flower potpourri used in Malay festivities and funerals. From Public Domain.
Isa Kamari has written 12 novels, 3 collections of poetry, a collection of short stories, a book of essays on Singapore Malay poetry, a collection of theatre scripts and lyrics of 3 music albums, all in Malay. His novels have been translated into English, Turkish, Urdu, Arabic, Indonesian, Jawi, Russian, French, Spanish, Korean, Azerbaijan and Mandarin. Several of his essays and selected poems have been translated into English. Isa was conferred the S.E.A Write Award from Thailand (2006), the Singapore Cultural Medallion (2007), the Anugerah Tun Seri Lanang (2009) from the Singapore Malay Language Council, and the Mastera Literary Award (2018) from Brunei Darussalam.
He obtained a BArch (Hons) from the National University of Singapore in 1989, an MPhil (Malay Letters) from Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia in 2008 and is currently pursuing a PhD programme at the Academy of Islamic Studies, Univeristi Malaya. His area of research is on the problem of alienation and the practice of firasat (spiritual intuition) in selected Singapore Malay novels.
The Lost Mantras is a collection that blends spirituality, Malay cultural heritage, and universal human experience. First published as part of Menyap Cinta (Love Greetings, 2022, Nuha Books KL), these poems are like a bridge between mysticism and everyday life, where traditional images (betel, jasmine, kris[1], oil lamps, setanjak[2]) are woven with Qur’anic echoes, prayers, and existential questioning. The collection carries a Sufi resonance—always circling back to longing, humility, surrender, and beauty as signs of God. The poems are not only lyrical but also function as cultural memory: they preserve Malay traditions, communal practices, and village life, while situating them in a cosmic framework of faith, sin, and redemption. The use of Malay customs, rituals, and objects is powerful: it asserts that spirituality is not abstract but embedded in heritage. This makes the collection uniquely Southeast Asian despite its universal in appeal.
I bow to you, King. I bear the torment of your sadness in the embrace of my sleep. May it transform into glad tidings for the days of your people. This exploration is to find your throne, which has disappeared from our hearts. For my love to you, King.
JASMINES
Earth jasmines, sky jasmines, a string of jasmines encircles the heart, jasmines poured with water from the hills, jasmines sprinkled by a pinch of compost. Seven rivers, seven clouds— rain pelts onto forlorn petals. Beauty is in the form, beauty to the eyes, beauty is the hand that tends to the soil, beauty is the fingers that caress the leaves, beauty is the cut on the arms of the gardener. The scorching sun, the shade from the foliage, bountiful is the soul of the tree that delivers, witness to a life devoted to hard work, with the laws of nature as the axis. Strong roots clench the earth, shoots look up high to the sky. Stand firmly, the soul sings. Blossoms waft fragrant dreams. Earth jasmines, sky jasmines, bloom in the early morning. Say your prayers, introduce yourself.
BETEL LEAVES
To be at the top is to function at the bottom, upholding responsibilities and trust, strengthening shared roots. The fragile branches are free to stretch, the green leaves spread wide. Wild betel, untouched betel, covers the soil, climbs the trellis. To be at the peak in essence is to grow shoots, carrying fertile hopes and dreams, giving way and space to grow, to climb each posting energetically, to qualify for the position when seasons change. Lofty betels, heavenly betels, reach for the stars, greet the clouds. To be in the ceremonial receptacle in essence is to uphold tradition, surrendering to the preservation of culture. Typically chewed with lime, slicing problems, mature-red in speech, tracing the lives of roots and shoots. Wild betel, untouched betel, lofty betel, heavenly betel, courtship betel, customary betel, weaving values and the essence of leadership entrenched in tradition.
HOME
Free souls wouldn’t be easily bored by mentoring and demands, for it’s the stable self that gives rise to liberation. And that’s called freedom — it isn't about release without aims, just like city folks, released from home or work, wander aimlessly at shopping malls, seek excitement from novelty and transience. It isn't that Life doesn’t require variety, or it isn't that the soul doesn’t long for fun. It’s just that we who claim to be free are easily entrapped in useless pettiness that we spread in the city without ever realising that we haven’t returned to the doors of our hearts, although we’ve stepped afoot onto the compound of the house.
Isa Kamari : A foremost Malay writer from Singapore: Photo provided by the poet.
Isa Kamari has written 12 novels, 3 collections of poetry, a collection of short stories, a book of essays on Singapore Malay poetry, a collection of theatre scripts and lyrics of 3 music albums, all in Malay. His novels have been translated into English, Turkish, Urdu, Arabic, Indonesian, Jawi, Russian, French, Spanish, Korean, Azerbaijan and Mandarin. Several of his essays and selected poems have been translated into English. Isa was conferred the S.E.A Write Award from Thailand (2006), the Singapore Cultural Medallion (2007), the Anugerah Tun Seri Lanang (2009) from the Singapore Malay Language Council, and the Mastera Literary Award (2018) from Brunei Darussalam.
He obtained a BArch (Hons) from the National University of Singapore in 1989, an MPhil (Malay Letters) from Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia in 2008 and is currently pursuing a PhD programme at the Academy of Islamic Studies, Univeristi Malaya. His area of research is on the problem of alienation and the practice of firasat (spiritual intuition) in selected Singapore Malay novels.
The Lost Mantras is a collection that blends spirituality, Malay cultural heritage, and universal human experience. First published as part of Menyap Cinta (Love Greetings, 2022, Nuha Books KL), these poems are like a bridge between mysticism and everyday life, where traditional images (betel, jasmine, kris[1], oil lamps, setanjak[2]) are woven with Qur’anic echoes, prayers, and existential questioning. The collection carries a Sufi resonance—always circling back to longing, humility, surrender, and beauty as signs of God. The poems are not only lyrical but also function as cultural memory: they preserve Malay traditions, communal practices, and village life, while situating them in a cosmic framework of faith, sin, and redemption. The use of Malay customs, rituals, and objects is powerful: it asserts that spirituality is not abstract but embedded in heritage. This makes the collection uniquely Southeast Asian while still universal in appeal
Borderless 