Categories
Essay

Harmonising a Symphony

By Yathish Kumar S

Somewhere between the borders drawn on maps and the divisions carved into human minds, an ancient truth has been quietly waiting to be remembered: the world is one. Not one in the trivial sense of sharing a planet, but one in the deeper sense that every human being, every culture, every living thing is woven from the same fabric of existence. The recognition of oneness, the understanding that “I” and “the other” are not fundamentally separate. It’s not merely a spiritual ideal but the single most practical foundation for building a happy, peaceful, and sustainable world.

Division, by contrast, is the root of nearly every form of suffering humanity has inflicted upon itself: war, exploitation, prejudice, ecological destruction, and the quiet loneliness that plagues even the most prosperous societies. If the world is truly one, then healing it does not require inventing something new; it requires remembering something old.

Human beings are born into a world that immediately teaches them to see in categories. We learn our name, our family, our nation, our religion, our race and with each label comes an invisible boundary. These boundaries are useful for organising social life, but they become dangerous when we mistake them for ultimate reality. We begin to believe that our group’s survival, prosperity, or pride depends on being separate from, and often superior to  another group. This is the illusion of separation, and it is the psychological seed from which most human conflict grows.

History offers endless evidence of what happens when this illusion hardens into ideology. Colonial empires justified centuries of exploitation by convincing themselves that colonised peoples were fundamentally different, lesser, and therefore fair game for domination. Wars have been fought over religious identity, national identity, and racial identity each side certain that the other was so essentially different that violence became not just permissible but necessary. Even in peacetime, this illusion shows up in economic systems that treat the poor as disposable, in social hierarchies that treat certain lives as worthless, and in environmental policies that treat nature as a resource to be extracted rather than a body of which we are a living part.

Yet science itself has quietly dismantled the illusion of separation even as culture continues to reinforce it. Physics tells us that everything in the universe emerged from the same cosmic origin and is composed of the same fundamental particles, endlessly recombined. Biology tells us that all life on Earth shares common ancestry, that the boundary between “self” and “environment” is porous. We breathe the same air, drink water that has cycled through oceans and clouds for millions of years, and carry within our bodies more microbial cells than human ones. Ecology tells us that ecosystems are not collections of separate organisms competing in isolation, but interdependent webs where the health of one part depends on the health of the whole. Even neuroscience suggests that the boundaries of the self are far less fixed than we assume, shaped by relationship, language, and culture from the moment of birth. Modern knowledge, in other words, converges with ancient wisdom traditions on a single point: separation is a useful intellectual map, but it’s not the territory.

Long before modern science offered its evidence, the world’s spiritual and philosophical traditions arrived at the same insight through direct contemplation of experience. In the Indian civilisational tradition, the Upanishads declare “Ekam Sat, Vipra Bahudha Vadanti” — Truth is one, though the wise call it by many names. The Vedantic vision of “Tat Tvam Asi” — “Thou art That”, points to the identity of the individual self (Atman) with the universal self (Brahman). The Bhagavad Gita speaks of the wise seeing “the same in all beings,” neither elevating nor diminishing anyone based on external distinctions.

This is not a uniquely Indian insight. In Buddhist philosophy, the doctrine of dependent origination (pratityasamutpada) teaches that nothing exists independently; everything arises in relationship to everything else. The Christian mystical tradition speaks of all humanity as members of one body. Sufi poets, like Rumi, wrote of the lover and the beloved as ultimately indistinguishable, using the language of romantic union to point toward a deeper metaphysical unity. Indigenous traditions across the Americas, Africa, Australia, and Asia have long understood the human being as inseparable from land, ancestors and community, a relational selfhood utterly different from the isolated individualism that modern economic life often assumes.

The philosophical concept of Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam — “the world is one family” — captures this spirit precisely. It does not deny the difference; it does not ask us to erase the beautiful diversity of language, custom, cuisine and belief that makes human culture so rich. Instead, it asks us to hold that diversity the way a family holds the differences among its members: as variation within belonging, not as grounds for exclusion. A family does not stop being one family because its members have different tastes, temperaments, or talents. Diversity and oneness are not opposites. If oneness is true at the level of physics, biology, and spiritual insight, it also turns out to be true at the level of practical psychology.

Modern research into human wellbeing consistently finds that happiness is not primarily a function of individual accumulation of  wealth, status, possessions, but of the quality of our relationships and our sense of connection to something larger than ourselves. People who feel isolated, even when materially wealthy, report lower life satisfaction than those embedded in strong communities, regardless of income. This is not a coincidence. Human beings evolved as intensely social creatures; our nervous systems are wired for connection, and chronic disconnection registers in the body as a form of stress that erodes both mental and physical health.

A worldview built on separation is, in this light, self-defeating. It tells us to compete rather than cooperate, to accumulate rather than to give, to defend rather than to open. It produces short-term gains for individuals or nations at the cost of long-term wellbeing for everyone, including the “winners.” A world of walled nations and gated communities is not a happy world, even for those inside the walls, because the psychological cost of maintaining separation, vigilance, suspicion, fear of the other is corrosive to the very peace it claims to protect.

Oneness, by contrast, offers a coherent foundation for sustainable happiness because it aligns our inner orientation with the actual structure of reality. When we act from the understanding that another person’s suffering is not truly separate from our own wellbeing, compassion becomes not a moral obligation imposed from outside but a natural expression of clear seeing. Generosity stops feeling like sacrifice and starts feeling like common sense, because what benefits the whole ultimately benefits the part. This is why every contemplative tradition that has taken oneness seriously has also produced ethics centred on compassion, non-violence and service not as rules to be obeyed, but as the natural behaviour of someone who has stopped mistaking the part for the whole.

Nowhere is the practical urgency of this vision more visible than in the ecological crisis now facing humanity. Climate change, biodiversity loss, pollution, and resource depletion are not separate problems to be solved by separate nations acting in isolation; they are symptoms of a single underlying error, the belief that human beings stand apart from and above the natural world, entitled to extract from it without consequence. A river does not recognise a national border; a warming atmosphere does not respect a treaty line. The planet itself is demonstrating, in the most literal and consequential way possible, that separation was always an illusion. What happens in one place is now measurably connected to what happens everywhere else.

The only responses capable of matching the scale of this crisis are those built on a recognition of interdependence: shared responsibility, shared sacrifice, and shared benefit. Nations that continue to act as though their own prosperity can be secured at the expense of the planet’s shared systems are, in effect, still living inside the illusion of separation and the consequences of that illusion are now measured in extreme weather, mass displacement, and ecological collapse. The idea of ‘one world’, one that understood its own unity, would treat the atmosphere, the oceans, and the biosphere as commons to be tended together rather than resources to be seized competitively. This is not utopian idealism; it is simply what the physical reality of an interconnected planet requires of a species intelligent enough to notice it.

It is not enough to affirm oneness as an abstract truth; it must be translated into the texture of daily life and public policy. On the personal level, this means cultivating the practice of seeing beyond the labels that separate us, learning to recognise our shared humanity even if  language, religion, or politics differ sharply from our own. It means choosing curiosity over contempt when we encounter differences, and remembering that every person we meet is fighting a battle we cannot fully see, shaped by circumstances as real to them as ours are to us.

On the social level, it means building institutions that express interdependence rather than domination: economic systems that measure success not only by growth but by the wellbeing of the most vulnerable; educational systems that teach children to see themselves as citizens of the world as much as citizens of a nation; media systems that resist the temptation to profit from outrage and division, and instead cultivate genuine understanding across difference. It means recognising that international cooperation on climate, public health, migration and peace  is not a diminishment of national identity but the mature expression of a species that has finally understood its own unity.

At the spiritual level, it means returning, in whatever language or tradition speaks to us, to practices that quieten the noise of the separate self: meditation, prayer, service, silence, art and honest self-reflection. These practices do not manufacture oneness; they simply remove the obstacles of fear, greed, resentment, pride  that prevent us from seeing what was true all along. A world of individuals who have done this inner work, even imperfectly, becomes a fundamentally different world from one populated by people who have never questioned the walls their minds have built.

Skeptics will rightly point out that talk of oneness can become an excuse for erasing real injustice, a comfortable spiritual bypass that tells the powerful and the powerless to simply “see themselves as one” while existing inequalities remain untouched. This objection deserves to be taken seriously. Genuine oneness is not a call to ignore difference or injustice; it is, if anything, the opposite. To recognise another person as truly not separate from oneself is to feel their suffering as one’s own concern, which makes it impossible to remain indifferent to exploitation, discrimination, or cruelty. A oneness that excuses injustice is not oneness at all; it is merely separation in disguise. True oneness demands action precisely because it refuses to let us hide behind the excuse that “their” suffering is not “our” problem.

Others will argue that difference and competition are natural, even necessary, drivers of progress, and that a world without boundaries would collapse into sameness or chaos. But oneness, properly understood, is not the demand for sameness. It does not ask nations to dissolve, cultures to merge, or individuals to abandon their particular gifts and identities. It asks only that these particularities be held within a deeper recognition of shared belonging, the way notes in a symphony remain distinct while contributing to a single piece of music. Diversity is not the opposite of oneness; the erasure of relationships is.

The claim that “the world is one” is not a slogan for a greeting card or a convenient sentiment for moments of crisis. It is, on the evidence of physics, biology, ecology, psychology and the converging insight of nearly every major school of philosophy in human history, simply an accurate description of reality, one that human culture has spent millennia obscuring behind walls of ego, power, and tribe. The suffering these walls have produced is not incidental to human history; it is, in large part, human history. War, exploitation, ecological collapse and the quiet epidemic of loneliness in even the wealthiest societies are all, at root, symptoms of forgetting what was never actually true. We were ever truly not separate to begin with.

To build a happier world, then, is not primarily a matter of inventing new technologies, new economic systems, or new political ideologies, though all of these may help. It is primarily a matter of remembering individually and collectively that the boundary between self and other has always been thinner than it appeared. When enough people remember this, compassion stops being an effort and becomes an instinct; cooperation stops being a strategy and becomes an expression of common sense; and the happiness we have spent so long chasing through accumulation and competition becomes available, quietly, as the natural condition of a mind no longer at war with itself.

The world is one.

Living as though we know this is, perhaps, the only path to a world worth living in.

.

Yathish Kumar S is a postgraduate student and a volunteer at the One World One Family Foundation. He is deeply interested in promoting the values of unity, compassion and global responsibility. His vision is to create awareness about the importance of recognizing that we all belong to one world and therefore, share a collective responsibility to contribute to the happiness, well-being and welfare of all people.

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

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

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

Categories
Stories

The City that Refused to be Found

By Rabiya Rehman

From Public Domain

Rim and I decided that it was for the best that we pinned Thursday as the day we commemorated change. Rim said it carried value, that good deeds showed exponential impacts on Thursdays. I was always a sceptic, but I also loved to play along with her antics, believing that maybe her beliefs carried, if nothing, than at least unwavering faith. Like a wild moth that circumambulates light bulbs, I liked hovering around people with warmth in their convictions, even if I didn’t feel the heat myself.

That Thursday, with Lahore’s weather melting our bags and shoes, we took an Uber to the centre of the city. Sweating and stumbling under the weight of books, we had decided that the world needed our attention. Particularly the newer lot;  simple, untouched, sensitive kids, who were victims of a declining reading culture. Our project was simple. Revive the ancient literatures of our land and encourage youngsters to read Urdu, Punjabi, Sindhi, Pashto, Siraiki writings. It was a social action project, tinted strongly with the pressing need to fulfil our community service hours, get our undergrad degrees, and leave the country for good.

Our Uber halted on a wayward road and the Google Maps app on my cell phone pinged. Wiping my brows, I looked tiredly at the man sitting in the driving seat with cheap, tinted shades. Rim was already getting out, pulling out cartons. I followed, paying the man his due, and straightening my sweat-drained kurti[1]. The uber hurried by, leaving us alone on a deserted road, paralleled by a graveyard. A man spraying roses with ether sat outside. The graveyard looked empty. The dead was left to their accord in the unflinching heat, even mosquitos seemed suspended mid-air.

We looked around and couldn’t see the library we were looking for. Aside from an occasional car passing by, hardly any signs of life were visible, let alone a signboard. The man with the roses followed our movement, his eyes trailing us with an intent too steady to be casual.

Rim jogged to him. Stooping low to match his gaze, she inquired, “Baba jee[2], is there a library close by?”

The man stared back and with a disfigured thumb pointed to her back. A tomb-like structure, which we ignored for some kind of local monument, stood stall and decaying in the centre of a park. It had caricatures of half-fairies, half-children painted on it. Beneath it were some quotes from popular Urdu poems that the harsh heat of Lahore had eroded.

“Umm, that’s the library?”

“I think so.” Rim said with a quizzed expression. “Let’s walk closer to see the main entrance. I can hardly see anything from this side of the road.”

The tomb indeed had a heavy polished brass door which contrasted sharply with the rotting situation of its grey structure. I pulled at the door and we stumbled inside an elaborate, red-carpeted, and red-walled hall. The woman behind the desk peeked as soon as Rim entered.

The room was beautiful, with landscape paintings of old Lahore and the river Ravi. Air conditioner blasted at full speed, and the old hum of different electronics created a soothing and numbing atmosphere. I could feel my shirt drying as the woman crossed the hall towards us, her red dupatta[3] following her trail.

“My bachas[4], what brings you hear in this heat? It’s an old library, are you looking for some antique books?”

She wore red chipping nail paint which emphasized the thinness of her dark hands. Old but strangely young, the woman fixed her silky drape, staring at us with glassy eyes.

“We got your address… our university’s administration gave it to us. Umm… they said you work with students who are particularly interested in the development of local literatures?” I responded, still-focusing on her hands.

“Yes. We have a separate office for that. Bacha, you’re at the wrong place. We relocated our main office a few months ago. It’s not far from here.”

While the woman spoke, Rim had walked to the furthest end of the library. Only her hunched back remained visible, focused on something out of my sight.

“Alright, that sounds good. Can you please give me the address of the main office?”

“Sure, and call your friend back. Visitors are not allowed today.”

I turned a bit and whisper-shouted, “Rim, let’s go!”

Rim didn’t look back and as I walked closer to her, I made out a rugged looking pit in the middle of the library floor. I crossed the distance, careful not to disturb the silence that clung to every surface like a curse. Inside the pit were a few books, some miniatures paintings, plastic cars, and three children with pale, almost colourless hair, sleeping peacefully in the sunken space. Such was the hush that not even an inch of their hair moved. We stared at their faces quietly. An eeriness had quietly descended the hall. The silence was broken by a soft hand on my shoulder.

“I said no visitors today, bacha.”

The woman’s voice came from behind. My conscious jolted as I felt her hand melting on my shoulder. I turned around and hurried out the door, with Rim on my heels. Before the door was completely closed, we saw the woman bent down, staring at the pit, her silk dupatta quietly trailing down her side. The image was like a water-painting, old, blistered, and grotesque.

“That was strange.” I breathed the moment the sun blared at us again.

“I know, Biya, that woman is like a hundred years old. Who dresses up like that at a hundred years old?”

“I don’t know, she appeared… timeless.”

“Yeah, she made me uncomfortable.” Rim shuddered and rubbed her shoulders. “Anyways, it’s still mid-day. I think we better hurry to that office. I promised Ammi[5] that I’ll come home early today.”

“Let’s go. Let’s walk. I don’t see any rikshaw or Uber passing.”

We walked passed the graveyard. Soon, as our shadows began to lengthen, we embarked a highway. Recognising it immediately, we understood that now we were close to a boulevard.

I jogged and Rim followed pursuit. My sneakers were pinching at my toes, and the sun grew larger and larger. We walked with cartons pulling our shoulders down. In a few minutes we were at the entrance of a colony.

“Okay, so Google says five more minutes. You aren’t dehydrated, right?” I asked Rim, staring at her pale face with concern.

“Ah… I am fine, I think. Lets just keep moving.”

We moved further until my phone pinged again. The notification showed that we had arrived at our location. I looked around. The place seemed abandoned, except huge mansions lined each side of the street. It was staggering, coming from a less developed area of Lahore, it always took me by surprise that houses could be so extravagant. Lush, elaborate lawns, freshly-polished doors, razor wires that covered kilometres of walls, and shiny marble which covered every inch of the buildings. We walked around the silent place, looking for signs of life. Not a single person was in sight.

We walked slowly, looking at the mansions in awe. Most gates were open, with expensive cars lining porches. A particular mansion had a driveway as big as the distance we had walked from the library. The house only appeared like a glimmer in distance. It had a glass structure at the entrance, fifteen foot tall and thirty feet wide. From what we could see, it was filled to the mouth with paintings, statues, and old artifacts.

“I have never been here before, Biya, and I was born in this city!”

“Same, but why is it so abandoned?”

“That’s what I was wondering. People have their BMW’s and Bugatti’s parked with gates wide open. There isn’t a guard in sight.”

“But where’s the office?”

“Let me check.”

Google Maps pointed at a house on the right. It stood forlorn, the only one on the right of that particular block. The raven-coloured gate was only slightly ajar. I pointed towards it and Rim pushed the gate with a slight force. It swayed easily, uncovering a pathway lined with wild cactus and primroses.

We cautiously walked the path. The house loomed before us, exhaling and inhaling with our every step. Its windows were tainted, reminding me of someone who hadn’t slept in years. Like the rest of the colony, there was a sense of restlessness in the air that cut through our skin like knife. While the house appeared pristine at first glance, a deeper look revealed cracks that ran through like capillaries in sea-green coloured walls. Bougainvillea climbed the side pillars and bloomed furiously, as if trying to revive a place that had stopped expecting visitors. I felt uncomfortable and tugged at Rim’s sleeve anxiously.

Under my touch, Rim froze.

“Biya”, she whispered, clutching my arm.

I looked up.

There, on one of the walls, a barred window gleamed with peeling paint. A woman was standing there. She was waving; slowly, deliberately. Like a pendulum of an old grandfather clock. She swayed, one hand clutching the bars of the window. It was ominous. Her dark gown fluttered faintly with the breeze.

I slightly raised my arm, unsure how to respond. Was this a greeting?

Before we could understand, a loud metallic clatter filled the air suddenly. Dogs barked viciously in a fit of madness. We spun around, trying to look for the noise. The place was empty. From the main door, a man burst forth. His shirt stained, barefoot and eyes bloodshot, he ran towards us. As he came closer, time stood slow. The hollowness of his eyes appeared like sunken pits in a dried riverbed. His hair screamed past air the closer he moved.

“Who are you? Who sent you?” He exploded, spitting with rage.

 “This is a private property! Don’t you dare come here! Go back! Go back!”

I let out a startled yelp and felt blood leaving my feet. Rim grabbed my arm and turned, sprinting down the gravel path as the man’s shouting mixed with the ear-splitting barking. The cactus needles brushed our clothes as we half-ran, half-stumbled. The gate we had nudged open without a second thought now felt like an exit from a spider’s web. Before we left, my eyes saw a trembling cage covered with a moth covered cotton sheet.

Rim ran for a long time, dragging me along. Reaching the main road again, panting, books rustling inside the carton, she stopped. Her arms were shaking. She stopped and looked at me nervously. In what sounded like a hysterical laugh, she breathed, trying to regain her senses.

“Biya, that wasn’t the office.” Rim said, exhaling.

No brainer, I thought. The sun was now trying to spin westwards, bleeding into the smoggy, dry sky of Lahore. Rim and I dragged ourselves, noticing our shadows getting longer and longer. We walked back to the colony, stopping at a office which read “Samia Wellness and Fertility Centre”. We decided to flag down a rickshaw. Rim was now oddly quiet, and my throat felt like it was scratched with sandpaper.

“Some local rickshaw-wala might be familiar with the office. I don’t have the energy to walk and this place seems too cursed for random exploration.”

Rim silently nodded, too exhausted to share her thoughts. The rickshaw stopped in front of us.

“Where to, beti[6]?” the driver asked, as I again fumbled with my cell phone and gave him the address to the office. The Google Maps app kept acting up, rerouting like a compass held close to a magnet.

“Just take us to this stop,” I said, waving the screen in his face.

The rickshaw sputtered, coughing like a chain-smoker and off we went. We looked outside carefully, tracking the map with the roads that passed by. We passed the graveyard again. The man who ether-sprayed roses had gone. Five minutes later, the driver halted and pointed outside.

“Beti, this is it. Fertility Center. It will be 300 rupees.”

We blinked and looked outside. We were at the fertility centre again. Fresh paint covered the building and the sun was now casting orange hues. Rim and I exchanged a look.

“Bhai[7], are you playing tricks with us? You got us back to the same place!”

“This is the location you gave me,” the man shrugged with obvious irritation.

“That’s not where we want to go,” Rim cried in frusruration.

The man shrugged again, clearly uninterested in our predicament.

We decided to give it another try. Rebooted the app and entered the address. The same pin drop appeared.

“Let’s just do one more round,” Rim told the driver.

We took another round. Moving in circles, again passing the neighbourhood, the library, and the graveyard. We passed the same mansions. Same roads. The rickshaw stopped again.

It was the same fertility centre. The same man who sat outside the pharmacy holding a file looked at us with amused suspicion.

“This place is cursed”, Rim shouted.

We got off the rickshaw, paid and shooed the driver away, and decided to walk again.

“Google thinks our project is a lost cause.” I said quietly.

It was as if the old city of Ravi was itself draining us, trapping us in a loop of mythic punishment, reflecting its forgotten literatures, the very stories we aimed to revive.

This time we let instinct lead, trying to follow the directions our university’s management had told Rim verbally. Soon, the road of the fertility centre opened up into quitter rows of offices. One of them read in small plaque: “Pakistan’s Centre for Indigenous Literatures”.

Rim jumped and placed a hand over her mouth. “That’s it! This is the office!”

I knocked on the door carefully, half expecting another madman or a ghost to burst forth and envelope us.

However, this time, a middle-aged man with a plastic clipboard opened the gate and looked stratled at our sweaty and wild-eyed state.

“Umm, the volunteers, I presume?”

“Yes.” I replied with a pause and we both entered.

During our meeting, the lady in charge said something that stuck with me through many years. She shared the history of her organisation, which deeply intertwined with the history of Lahore. She remarked that Pakistan is a land of promise, but lands have a way of oozing decay. You can build highways, install fancy street lights, and create grand elaborate structures, but the degeneration, the last faltering breath of a city rampant with the destruction of ideology, of morality, and of faith, that cannot be swept under covers. It stares back from the layers of funds and aids thrown at it. So, you may close your eyes, put cotton in your ears, and even numb your hands, but the horrors of a city destroyed by its own people never really become silent.

(Disclaimer: The opinions expressed are solely that of the author and not of Borderless Journal.)

[1] A short shirt cut like a kurta, but often short sleeved

[2] A polite term to address an older man

[3] A scarf or veil

[4] Children

[5] Mother

[6] Daughter

[7] Brother

Rabiya Rehman is a Staff Editor for Chartium, and the Poetry Feedback Assistant at ECHO Review. She is an English Literature grad student based in Pakistan, a place known for its centuries-old tradition of Sufi poetry and searching questions about the self. Her research and interests lie in speculative fiction and the ways stories shape both culture and selfhood.

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

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

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

Categories
The Lost Mantras

Exploring Malay Traditions

Poetry and translations from Malay by Isa Kamari

THE KRIS

Heppp!

Hold tight the hilt of faith.
Insert the base pin of endeavour into the hollow of destiny.
Adorn the ring with carvings of identity.
Gild the heart with gold on the transverse base piece.
Welcome the strong spirit on the elephant’s trunk.
Ensure the side finials are neat, although spiky.
Meditate on the rejuvenated fallen tree at the base of intention.
Sprinkle spilled rice grains on life’s damascene.
Complete the trio pattern with golden showers.
Dance in the rhythm of odd waves.
Honour loyalty of the blade on the forehead.
Make sure the thrust is sharp on target.
Once the blade is drawn out, the task must be accomplished.
Adorn the self’s sheath with morality.
Cleanse the rust of misdeeds with lime.
Accompany every move with the fragrance of perfume.
Warm up intuition with smoke from the freshness of incense.
Slip the calling of the motherland at the waist.

Heppp!

It is unforgivable for the warrior
to surrender before the fight.
It is not death before its time.
Mantras of faith and honour
will always be revered,
will always be upheld.

Ciiiss! Come, forward!

THE SEJANTAK
(Traditional Headgear)

Aduhai, hai, hai, hai!

The head is a guard,
the head is a warrior,
the head is a seat of kingdom,
the head is a treasury of culture, knowledge, and identity.
It’s only right to uphold it.
It’s only proper to revere it.

Aduhai, hai, hai, hai!

A piece of cloth to block the sun,
woven from thread to absorb perspiration,
tied in accordance with locality,
decorated in accordance with tradition.

Aduhai, hai, hai, hai!

Bulang Bidang is simple in readiness.
Bugis Tak Balik walks alone.
The Eagle Slices The Sky with might.
The Rooster unsheathes its spurs.
The Young Admiral conquers the ocean.
The Getam Budu is wise and intelligent.

Aduhai, hai, hai, hai!

Although humans are equal,
the head determines the fold and pattern of adornment.
It elevates the have-nots to the haves,
removes the yearns of the haves from the have-nots.
The head shines in resplendence, pulsates in the veins.

Aduhai, hai, hai, hai!

The setanjak narrates:
The Malay has a place.
The Malay has a tradition.
He moves forward with confidence, acts with wisdom,
the intuitive who and what the self is.

Aduhai, hai, hai, hai!

Beta Dendam Tak Sudah

(This Never-ending Feud)

IRON

The origin of iron is not iron.
Iron comes from the word.
The word comes from Hu!
Iron remains as iron without forging.
The forging begins in fire.
The fire melts the hardness of metal.
The metal is folded and hit repeatedly,
in layers, sieving the pure.
It needs the wild rage of fire, knocks upon knocks.

At last, the iron tells its tale
in the reveal of the damascene patterns.
The blade is dipped into water.
Ciiiiiiss! Ciiiiiiss! Ciiiiiiss!
Aspirations rise as steam,
penetrate seven layers of air.

The origin of iron is not iron.
Iron comes from Hu!

Only the expert smith
knows how to select the best iron ore.
Only the brave smith
dares to befriend the fire.
Only the knowledgeable smith
forms beautiful and beneficial damascene patterns.
The inheritance returns to its owner.
The knight returns to the other world.

Hu! Hu! Hu!
Ciiiiiiss!


THE ROUTE

Given the shortest route
that is clear and beautiful,
you procrastinate from valley to valley.

Although painful, slowly but surely,
I will scrape all meanings of Beauty
except for Truth.
Bugis Tak Balik — Malay headgear worn by warriors. 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.

[1]A dagger

[2] Malay headgear

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

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

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

Categories
The Lost Mantras

Nature and Isa Kamari

Poetry and translations from Malay by Isa Kamari

From Public Domain
CRACKED MIRROR

God,
I am the cracked mirror
who tries to capture Your Light.

Every moment,
as I gather to piece Your Face,
I see my maimed life,
wounded by wild dreams,
scarred by foul experiences.

Would You even look at Your shadow
scathed by my protesting soul
and slashes of transgression,
the rebellious worship of a servant?

SNAIL

I look at the snail and ask myself,
would I be able to stop
the river of time with my heart?

For failure is the raging currents
that erode the banks of faith.

I look at the snail that struggles in the rain;
I’m ashamed of my neglect of God’s grace.

I look at the snail that slips and is washed away;
I become tearful in the drizzle that slices my heart.

I remember the snail and learn to be generous.

THE OCEAN

To know a human being is akin to loving the ocean.
It’s inadequate to just have fun at the beach,
to welcome its waves of thoughts.
It’s not enough to scavenge at the beach,
assessing the debris it leaves behind.

To know a human being is akin to revering the ocean.
It isn’t fair to envision at the beach,
to measure its expanse and depth.

Its lonesome rumble invites us to be divers,
ready to face its currents of struggles,
so that we could penetrate its castle of corals
that has long separated the bedrock of goodness from the surface—
the true character of a human being—
so that we would discover the beautiful pearls of friendship.

To know a human being is akin to embracing the ocean.
It’s impolite to just stand by the beach.

THE SEAL

The seal is a sign,
a note to validate the self,
the carved imprints of representation.
The wax is the official voice, the mark of law.

The seal is a signifier—
there is no double-talk,
no bargains or compromise,
no forked tongue. It stands firm in position.

The seal is of significance—
words cannot be retracted,
the decision delivered to the recipient,
reward or judgment passed, the door of destiny.

Opening the pages of an ancient book—
the bridge of hair split into seven strands.
Is the wax fragrant or vile?
A river of milk flows at one end,
an abyss of raging fire at the other.
What seal is stamped on the chest:
Dwellers of heaven or hell?

Everything has been ordained,
written on the leaves of the Lote Tree*.

*Lote Tree is a cedar that marks the entrance to heaven
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.

[1]A dagger

[2] Malay headgear

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

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

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

Categories
The Lost Mantras

Four More Poems by Isa Kamari

Poetry and translations from Malay by Isa Kamari

INCENSE BURNER

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.

[1]A dagger

[2] Malay headgear

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

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

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

Categories
The Lost Mantras

It’s but a Memory… More Poems by Isa Kamari

Poetry and translations from Malay by Isa Kamari

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.

[1]A dagger

[2] Malay headgear

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

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

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

Categories
The Lost Mantras

Four Poems by Isa Kamari

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.

[1]A dagger

[2] Malay headgear

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

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

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

Categories
The Lost Mantras

A Song of the Wind & Other Poems by Isa Kamari

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.

[1]A dagger

[2] Malay headgear

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

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

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

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Excerpt

Delhi’s Haunted Monuments

Title: Ghosted: Delhi’s Haunted Monuments 

Author: Eric Chopra

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

JAMALI-KAMALI

Menacing Jinn and Forbidden Pasts

Do people who come here ask you about the jinn?’ My question lingered in the air for a bit. I was in the courtyard of a medieval mosque. At nightfall, this monument is entrancing, with its white marble dazzling against the red sandstone and the medallions on the spandrels of its pishtaq (arched entrance) appearing as glaring white eyes.

‘That’s all they mostly ask…’ said the guard as he began to dig through his pockets, looking for a key upon my request. ‘But I have my guru’s blessings, nobody has harmed me! And see this, that very guru allows me to find everything.’ He triumphantly raised his hands and dangled the keys which would open the perpetually locked gate of the graveyard that hosts the supposedly ‘haunted’ tomb adjacent to the mosque.

I remember how strong the scent of the devil’s tree, Saptaparni, was that evening. This is the fragrance of October in Delhi, playing its part as the harbinger of winter. The intensity of the aroma was unsurprising since I was surrounded by trees as I made my way through the Mehrauli Archaeological Park. The moon was aglow, and so was the Qutb Minar, (Fig. 23) India’s tallest minaret that oversees this part of the city like a powerful ancestral force.

There have been times aplenty when I have been warned to not come to this park after sunset, not only because of its forested environs but also for the unseeable forces who are believed to inhabit it. ‘At least tie your hair…’ I am told by the flower-sellers who sit in rows across the narrow road outside one of the entrances to the park. My hair, if left untied, is an invitation for the menacing jinn to follow me, and not only that, they would also leave an imprint across my cheeks: ‘Beware…they will slap you!’

Jinn are ‘intermediary’ and complex beings who are made of smokeless fire, unlike humans, who are made of clay. In Islam, both humans and jinn are subject to the Revealed Law and will be held accountable for their actions on the Day of Judgement. Like humans, jinn are considered ‘responsible beings’ as they possess the freedom to choose how they lead their lives. However, they also have unique characteristics: shape-shifters, invisible entities, and magical trickery. While the jinn do possess these abilities, their power serves as a test, and they will face consequences if they misuse it to terrorise people.

But it is not that these jinn float and reside in the many niches that this historical park is dotted with. There is a particular place where they have found refuge, at the tomb and mosque of Jamali Kamboh—a Sufi, courtier, poet, emissary, and globe-trotter. But if you ever find yourself in Mehrauli and ask anyone about him, you would never hear his name being taken alone. It is always in companionship with Kamali, the identity that local lore has given to the mystery man that Jamali is buried next to.

Together, Jamali-Kamali are found in a single-storied mausoleum as magnificent as the meaning behind Jamali’s name: the one who inspires beauty. Resembling a gem-box, it is even protected like one since special permission is required to see it from the inside, though legends will also have you believe that it must also be kept that way so as to not provoke the wrath of the jinn. The monument that is always accessible in this complex is the mosque, also built by Jamali, and to its north is where his tomb lies, in a cemetery surrounded by other open-air graves.

But on that October evening, my request to be let inside had been granted. As the guard reached the graveyard’s gate, the locks clinked and clanked, and I wondered how I would make a rather frustrating character in a horror movie, much like those who are aware of the consequences and yet become responsible for incurring the curse of the Mummy. But I didn’t have to dwell on this thought for too long for by then, the gate had been opened, and I marched purposefully towards Jamali-Kamali.

A chained wooden door shields this square tomb. To get a glimpse of the interiors, one has to walk to its northern and eastern sides which boast beautiful sandstone jalis (latticed window screens). To its north I went, lured by the devil tree’s scent marrying the aroma of the incense sticks that had been lined right under the screen. The guard told me that somebody had come earlier to the tomb to pray and had lit those sticks. ‘But even when there are no agarbattis here, I still always get a whiff of them,’ he said.

I peeked in through the screen and there they were in their shiny graves, right next to one another—Jamali and Kamali. They rest under a domed ceiling that gleams with magnificent motifs and its edges sing the verses of Jamali. It  appears as if these two spend their afterlife at peace under an ornate galaxy of red, white, and blue.

Having beheld its magic, it was puzzling. How does something so precious come to attain the reputation as one of the city’s most haunted sites? But there were more questions. About its uniqueness: how does such a pioneering sixteenth-century tomb, spanning the period between the decline and rise of two dynastic epochs, find itself in Delhi’s first city? About its multiple identities: how can this monument be a place of horrors and simultaneously a haven of sanctity and an oasis for lost histories? And inevitably, about its enigma, not only due to the jinn, but also because of Kamali: who really was this man, sometimes seen as Jamali’s pupil, at other times his friend, and often, his lover?

It is through the untangling of these various threads which tie Jamali-Kamali together that we may reach closer to understanding what makes this place so astonishing. And thus, the story can only begin at one place…

(Extracted from Ghosted: Delhi’s Haunted Monuments by Eric Chopra. Published by Speaking Tiger Books, 2025)

About the Book

Delhi is haunted—by its ghosts, its ruins, and its unending capacity for rebirth. In the shadow of medieval mosques and Mughal tombs, the past refuses to stay buried. Saints, Sultans, poets, and lovers—all linger in the city’s imagination, their stories shaping how we remember what once was.

In Ghosted, historian and storyteller Eric Chopra journeys through the capital’s most beguiling sites—Jamali-Kamali, Firoz Shah Kotla, Khooni Darwaza, the Mutiny Memorial, and Malcha Mahal—to unearth a Delhi that exists between worlds: a palimpsest where Sufis bless kings, jinn listen to grievances, and begums occupy dilapidated hunting lodges. What begins as a search for Delhi’s haunted monuments becomes a meditation on why we are drawn to the dead and how ghost stories become vessels of collective memory.

Blending archival research with folklore, myth, and reflection, Chopra paints an intimate portrait of a city forever in dialogue with its former selves. Through invasions and rebirths, he reveals that Delhi’s spirit resides not just in its monuments but in the unseen presences that linger among them.

Ghosted is a lyrical, haunting journey through the city’s spectral landscape— an invitation to listen to what its echoes tell us about memory and identity.

About the Author

Eric Chopra is a public historian, writer, media creator, podcaster, and the founder of Itihāsology, an inclusive platform dedicated to Indian history and art. He leads a range of heritage experiences at museums and monuments and designs history-musicals in which he performs as a storyteller. Chopra is the co-host of the For Old Times’ Sake podcast and Jaipur Literature Festival’s Jaipur Bytes podcast. He also writes and curates for numerous festivals and events focused on history, literature, and the performing arts.

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

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The Lost Mantras

More Poems by Isa Kamari

Poetry and translation from Malay by Isa Kamari

DAWN

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.

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.

[1]A dagger

[2] Malay headgear

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

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

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