Five poems by Pravasini Mahakudahave been translated to English from Odia by Snehaprava Das. Click here to read.
A Poet in Exileby Dmitry Blizniuk has been translated from Ukranian by Sergey Gerasimov. Click hereto read.
Kalponik or Imaginedby Tagore has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Click hereto read.
Pandies Corner
Songs of Freedom: The Seven Mysteries of Sumona’s Life is an autobiographical narrative by Sumona (pseudonym), translated from Hindustani by Grace M Sukanya. These stories highlight the ongoing struggle against debilitating rigid boundaries drawn by societal norms, with the support from organisations like Shaktishalini and Pandies. Click here to read.
Incomplete statues of Michelangelo in Accademia Gallery, Florence
In the Accademia Gallery, Florence, are housed incomplete statues by Michelangelo that were supposed to accompany his sculpture of Moses on the grand tomb of Pope Julius II. The sculptures despite being unfinished, incomplete and therefore imperfect, evoke a sense of power. They seem to be wresting forcefully with the uncarved marble to free their own forms — much like humanity struggling to lead their own lives. Life now is comparable to atonal notes of modern compositions that refuse to fall in line with more formal, conventional melodies. The new year continues with residues of unending wars, violence, hate and chaos. Yet amidst all this darkness, we still live, laugh and enjoy small successes. The smaller things in our imperfect existence bring us hope, the necessary ingredient that helps us survive under all circumstances.
Imperfections, like Michelangelo’s Non-finito statues in Florence, or modern atonal notes, go on to create vibrant, relatable art. There is also a belief that when suffering is greatest, arts flourish. Beauty and hope are born of pain. Will great art or literature rise out of the chaos we are living in now? One wonders if ancient art too was born of humanity’s struggle to survive in a comparatively younger world where they did not understand natural forces and whose history we try to piece together with objects from posterity. Starting on a journey of bringing ancient art from her part of the world, Ratnottama Sengupta shares a new column with us from this January.
Drenched in struggles of the past is also Showkat Ali’s The Struggle: A Novel, translated from Bengali by V. Ramaswamy and Mohiuddin Jahangir. It has been reviewed by Somdatta Mandal who sees it a socio-economic presentation of the times. We also carry an excerpt from the book as we do for Anuradha Marwah’s The Higher Education of Geetika Mehendiratta. Marwha’s novel has been reviewed by Meenakshi Malhotra who sees it as a bildungsroman and a daring book. Bhaskar Parichha has brought to us a discussion on colonial history about Rakesh Dwivedi’s Colonization Crusade and Freedom of India: A Saga of Monstrous British Barbarianism around the Globe. Udita Banerjee has also delved into history with her exploration of Angshuman Kar’s The Lost Pendant, a collection of poems written by poets who lived through the horrors of Partition and translated from Bengali by multiple poets. One of the translators, Rajorshi Patranabis, has also discussed his own book of supernatural encounters, Whereabouts of the Anonymous: Exploration of the Invisible. A Wiccan by choice, Patranbis claims to have met with residual energies or what we in common parlance call ghosts and spoken to many of them. He not only clicked these ethereal beings — and has kindly shared his photos in this feature — but also has written a whole book about his encounters, including with the malevolent spirits of India’s most haunted monument, the Bhangarh Fort.
Bringing us an essay on a book that had spooky encounters is Farouk Gulsara, showing how Dickens’ A Christmas Carolrevived a festival that might have got written off. We have a narrative revoking the past from Larry Su, who writes of his childhood in the China of the 1970s and beyond. He dwells on resilience — one of the themes we love in Borderless Journal. Karen Beatty also invokes ghosts from her past while sharing her memoir. Rick Bailey brings in a feeling of mortality in his musing while Keith Lyons, writes in quest of his friend who mysteriously went missing in Bali. Let’s hope he finds out more about him.
Charudutta Panigrahi writes a lighthearted piece on barbers of yore, some of whom can still be found plying their trade under trees in India. Randriamamonjisoa Sylvie Valencia dwells on her favourite place which continues to rejuvenate and excite while Prithvijeet Sinha writes about haunts he is passionate about, the ancient monuments of Lucknow. Gulsara has woven contemporary lores into his satirical piece, involving Messi, the footballer. Bringing compassionate humour with his animal interactions is Devraj Singh Kalsi, who is visited daily by not just a bovine visitor, but cats, monkeys, birds and more — and he feeds them all. Suzanne Kamata takes us to Kishi, brought to us by both her narrative and pictures, including one of a feline stationmaster!
We've run away from the simmering house like milk that is boiling over. Now I'm single again. The sun hangs behind a ruffled up shed, like a bloody yolk on a cold frying pan until the nightfall dumps it in the garbage…
('A Poet in Exile', by Dmitry Blizniuk, translated from Ukranian by Sergey Gerasimov)
In translations, we have Professor Fakrul Alam’s rendition of Nazrul’s mellifluous lyrics from Bengali. Isa Kamari has shared four more of his Malay poems in English bringing us flavours of his culture. Snehaparava Das has similarly given us flavours of Odisha with her translation of Pravasini Mahakuda’s Odia poetry. A taste of Balochistan comes to us from Fazal Baloch’s rendition of Sayad Hashumi’s Balochi quatrains in English. Tagore’s poem ‘Kalponik’ (Imagined) has been rendered in English. This was a poem that was set to music by his niece, Sarala Devi.
After a long hiatus, we are delighted to finally revive Pandies Corner with a story by Sumona translated from Hindustani by Grace M Sukanya. Her story highlights the ongoing struggle against debilitating rigid boundaries drawn by societal norms. Sumana has assumed a pen name as her story is true and could be a security risk for her. She is eager to narrate her story — do pause by and take a look.
In fiction, we have a poignant narrative about befriending a tramp by Ross Salvage, and macabre and dark one by Mary Ellen Campagna, written with a light touch. It almost makes one think of Eugene Ionesco. Jonathan B. Ferrini shares a heartfelt story about used Steinway pianos and growing up in Latino Los Angeles. Rajendra Kumar Roul weaves a narrative around compassion and expectations. Naramsetti Umamaheswararao gives a beautiful fable around roses and bees.
With that, we come to the end of a bumper issue with more than fifty peices. Huge thanks to all our fabulous contributors, some of whom have not just written but shared photographs to illustrate the content. Do pause by our contents page and take a look. My heartfelt thanks to our fabulous team for their output and support, especially Sohana Manzoor who does our cover art. And most of all huge thanks to readers whose numbers keep growing, making it worth our while to offer our fare. Thank you all.
Here’s wishing all of you better prospects for the newborn year and may we move towards peace and sanity in a world that seems to have gone amuck!
A real life narrative by Sumona (pseudonym), translated from Hindustani by Grace M Sukanya
Songs of Freedom bring stories from women — certainly not victims, not even survivors but fighters against the patriarchal status quo with support from the organisation Shaktishalini.[1]
–Sanjay Kumar (1961-2025), founder of pandies’
What I Don’t Know
If I had to choose a moment that changed everything, it would be when the police rang the bell at Nakul’s house. Or perhaps, when I found out that I was pregnant. But both happened within a few hours of each other so… maybe it was that whole day.
Or maybe it was when I was finally rid of the brothels? I am so glad to be out of it and it was Nakul who helped me do that, no matter what he did otherwise. I am grateful for that.
Or maybe when I found out that Sanjay was married. I didn’t believe it for the longest time. And I lost the only family that had ever cared about me because of that…
The First Mystery: Maybe sometimes it can be an accident?
My older brother was sick. They said someone gave him drugs, mixed in with some chicken, and he became an addict. The drugs ate away at him.
Even when I was a child – he was very sick. And he was the most important person to me in the world; my mother had died, my stepmother drank, and my father did bad things to me at night. (I don’t know whether he did it on purpose or accidentally… maybe he didn’t know what he was doing because he used to be quite drunk too?)
So, I had to save my brother somehow… I asked a pastor in my village to help me find work. He knew a couple in Sikkim, he said, who needed help taking care of their two children. I decided to go.
I was very young then. I hadn’t even started my periods. For the first couple of years, things were okay. I even came back home at the end of those two years, to meet my brother. He was still unwell and my employers had told me they’d send my earnings home as soon as I went back to work.
But when I did go back — the man started abusing me. And not like my father – he knew what he was doing because he told me to keep quiet about it or he’d kill me.
I used to believe him too. Of course, he could me kill me – and no one would know. Or even care. Even if I told anyone, who would believe me? His wife would obviously be on his side. And the pastor would scold me. I was ashamed, and I was scared. So, I kept quiet.
I also needed the money. I asked him to send it to my parents, so my brother could get treated. After a few days he said he had done it. Therefore, I kept quiet.
He used to do things to me so frequently that I was not able to complete my chores. His wife started getting annoyed with me. She started burning me with things. Once she did it with a hot pressure cooker. The burn festered and became large and infected.
It was he who took care of me then… He scolded her on my behalf, told her if something happened to me, they would be held responsible. And I don’t know how but he got the wound to heal faster somehow.
I escaped back to my village soon after that.
I came back and found out that my brother was still sick, despite the Rs. 12,000 [2] my employers had sent to my home for the two years of work I had done in their house. I went and asked the doctor why he had not been treated yet. He told me he had never received any payment for the treatment. Then I found out from others that my step mother had used the money to buy alcohol. I had to look for work again…
I finally told the pastor the truth about the couple. He was angry with them, and at first, I was relieved. But then he decided to call and confront the family, and tell them off. The lady told him that they were on their way to speak to me, and that I should not say anything to anyone else until they met with me.
Sikkim was 3 hours away from my village by car (there were no buses plying on this route) and I was terrified of meeting them.
I ran away from home a second time.
The Second Mystery: Can I have a home in city I don’t know?
There was a girl called Rekha in my village, my age, or maybe slightly older than me. She worked in Delhi and earned fairly well. I asked her if she would help me find work in the city too. I told her I had experience working as a maid and a nanny. She said that I could go to Delhi with her.
So when the pastor told me that my former employers from Sikkim were on their way, I hightailed it out of the village with her.
We reached Delhi around 11 am in the morning. Rekha took me to a building that had a lot of small, independent rooms on a floor. In one room were some young men who did some work with computers. One room had a family with some children. And in one room were some young girls just like us. I thought I was to live with the girls and look after the family.
Within 5-10 minutes of reaching, Rekha told me that we had to go shopping. She took me to a large bazaar — it was bigger than any village market I had been to. There, she bought me a bunch of clothes: a lot of short dresses and skirts, the kind I had never worn before. I was happy to be starting this new phase of my life, and I couldn’t believe someone was buying clothes for me. It made me very happy.
We went back to The Home That Wasn’t. Rekha told me to get ready. As I was tired, I asked her why I was getting ready in the evening? Why could I not start working next morning? She told me I had to get ready right then in the new clothes I’d bought. I didn’t understand then what was about to happen.
I got “ready” in my new clothes, and Rekha took me to a hotel. Some men joined us, drinks were passed around, and then I was sent off with one of them to a room.
I was shocked. I didn’t know what to think or even feel about it. I said nothing.
The next morning, Rekha took me back to The House That Wasn’t and told me to pack my bags. I put all my new clothes in a bag and walked out of there. This time she took me to a tall, narrow building in a congested, crowded street. On the 4th floor of The Tower was a very small, very dirty room, not big enough for even a bed. I was told to get in.
I still didn’t understand what was happening.
There was a man there, Nishant. Rekha spoke to him for some time, then left. When I asked what was happening, he told me that she had left me there to work for him. I still didn’t know what to think (I was 11).
Soon after, an old man came to my room. He was as old as my father. He started forcing me to do things, taking advantage of me. This is when I first had the thought that maybe what was happening to me was wrong…
But it was too late. I was never let out of that room. The door was always locked. There was some space between the bottom of the door and the floor – it was used to slide in food. I don’t know how many years I spent in that room.
I used to dream of the things I would do once I got out. I kept trying to figure out how to get out. But I knew nothing at all – I didn’t know this city, or where I was located, or even the language. How would I ever get out?
Soon, they started sending me out to men’s places. The men were supposed to come pick me up and then drop me back. I didn’t know how to run away and they knew that: my captivity was complete.
The Third Mystery: If my work pays someone else, what am I?
There were always other people who got the money I earned.
After a few years in the city, I was sometimes allowed to visit The Home That Wasn’t. Nishant knew that it was the only place I “knew” (except for the The Tower). If I was sent to work from there, Meera got the money. If I was sent to work from The Tower then Nishant got the money. Rekha I never heard from again (she ran away with all the commission she had earned on my work in The Tower, while I was still locked up in the small dirty room).
One day, I was feeling unwell so I went to The Home That Wasn’t.
They had a frequent customer, Nakul. All the girls there had already been to his place. He insisted on someone “new”. So Meera sent me to him.
He was young, maybe about 25 or 26 years old. He was in the police, I don’t know what post. He was married, he told me, but it had been against his will so he was unhappy and therefore sleeping with other women.
That first day he met me, he asked me whether I was doing this out of my own free will or whether I was being coerced. I told him the truth. He said he would help me. I didn’t trust his offer of help – men often asked me whether I was being coerced, and then offered their help; but no one ever actually did anything to help me.
Nevertheless, I was hurt when Nakul proceeded to take advantage of me – I kept telling him no but he did bad things to me anyway. I was hurt that I had told him the truth about my life and he still treated me badly, like everyone else had.
One day he called his friends over and introduced me to them. They were all drinking and encouraged me to have a cold drink too. But they’d put something in it, and I passed out. When I came to, I knew that his friends had done things to me– and I knew it had been planned and he was in on it. I hated that but I didn’t say anything because he had also promised to save me.
Meera and Nishant called him about 2-3 days after he took me to his place, asking when he’d be bringing me back. I told him to say that I had run away and was no longer with him. They threatened to report him to the police. But he was fearless – he told her that he would them report them for forcing me into prostitution. They backed off after that.
And that is how I became free. Nakul helped me get free. So, I started living with him.
The Fourth Mystery: If my “friend” stands between the whole world and me, am I free?
About a week into staying at his place, he bought me an enormous bundle of clothes and so many shoes!
The shoes were all the wrong size though… he said he would go back and exchange them for the right size.
Two days later, he took me out on a drive at night with three other men, two of whom I knew.
We stopped after some time, and everyone was asked to put their phones in a small polybag. I didn’t understand what was happening. At this point, another man was called to the car. All the four men I had arrived with started beating this man up. Gunshots rang out. I don’t know who fired them. A crowd had gathered. We heard the police siren. Nakul shouted at me to get into the trunk of the car. I jumped in, and I saw him get into the car as well. I could see everything from a crack in the cover.
The police chased us through many streets. The car was being driven very fast and recklessly to lose them. I was starting to feel sick and suffocated; I kept banging around inside the trunk and I was hurt. Eventually, after several hours, the car stopped. I was asked to get out. Only one man was left – the one I didn’t know. He asked me to get into the front seat. He’d managed to lose the police.
I finally felt like I could breathe again. We drove some distance. Dawn was breaking. The man stopped the car and started trying to do things to me. But I had had enough. I felt sick and angry. I did everything I could to stop him. Finally, when I had scratched his face, he stopped and agreed to send me to Nakul’s.
Luckily, we also found Nakul’s phone in the car, maybe he had dropped it by mistake. My phone had disappeared with the polybag. I identified Nakul’s friends’ numbers by their profile pictures on Whatsapp. The man tried these numbers one by one and finally got through to Nakul. He took the address down and booked me a cab home.
I arrived back at Nakul’s place around 7 am. The two other men who had been in the car with us were there, as was a woman I didn’t know.
I shouted at Nakul then about what he had put me through. I knew he didn’t treat me well; I knew he slept with other women; I knew he pimped me out – but I also felt like I had a right over him, that I could shout at him and he would listen to him. Not that he gave me any explanations… I still don’t know what exactly happened that night.
Eventually, the two men left for their homes. Nakul also left with the woman, saying he had to drop her off. By 11:30 am, I was alone in the house.
My brain wasn’t working. I had shouted at Nakul. But I had failed to process anything anybody had said that morning. I felt like I kept swimming in and out of consciousness – not literally… but I couldn’t hear people, I couldn’t process what I was hearing… I felt like my brain had shut down.
That was the state I was in when the bell rang at 11:30 pm that night. I was still alone at home. When I went to open the door, it was the police along with the two men who had been there at the house that morning. No sign of Nakul.
The Fifth Mystery: It is my decision
The police took me to the thana[3] with them and questioned me till about 2-3 am that night. Eventually they understood that I had no idea about what these men had been up to. And also, that I had been taken advantage of. Early in the morning they took me to a hospital. I was tested and I (along with everyone else) found out I was pregnant.
At this, my brain shut down even further. I was taken to court. As a minor, I was put under the protection of the state and assigned a hostel. The police asked me if I wanted an abortion – they even urged me to get one. They told me I was still a child, I would not be able to take care of a baby of my own, that I would find it difficult to lead a life of my own, or move on from everything that had happened if I were to become a mother, that it would be best for my future if I aborted the foetus… But there were also people who told me that the baby had a life too, that if I aborted, I would be killing a life and did I want to be a murderer?
For a long time, I could not think for myself at all. But the police did tell me they’d support whatever decision I made… To be honest, I found them very helpful. It took me over a month to come to a decision. I thought about all the things I would be able to do if I didn’t have a child – get educated, get a job, earn money, maybe fall in love again and get married.
I also thought about what life with my kid would be like and all the things I would do for him / her that weren’t done for me. These dreams also made me happy – but I realised I had no means to fulfill them. How would I feed the kid without a job? How would I educate him / her? Some people kept telling me I could give my child up for adoption but that thought filled me with sadness too… So finally, I decided to get an abortion.
The police, as promised, helped me get it done. It was done at a state hospital. I was four months pregnant. The whole thing took almost a month. Then I needed two more months to recover. I wasn’t getting proper food at the hostel I was in, so at my request, my case supervisor had me transferred to another hostel. And this is where a new life began for me.
The Sixth Mystery: How unconditional is the love of a “family”?
I was sent to another hostel in Delhi NCR, which was quite large.
Sometime after the move, my stepmother turned up at the gates and asked me to leave the facility to spend some time with her. Since I was still under state protection, the hostel had to take clearance from them. When they were called, a woman at the institution told them not to let me out at any cost as my life was in danger: Nakul had managed to break out of prison and would try to kill me to stop me from testifying against him. So, I wasn’t let out to see my stepmother.
Years later, when I asked her how she had found the money to come all the way to Delhi to see me, she admitted that some man had bribed her to lure me out of the hostel…
In the 3 years I was there, my father and older brother passed away. My father was an old drunk so it wasn’t a shock. But my brother – he died terribly. By the end, he had TB, cancer, paralyses. He couldn’t move. And with both of them gone, I had no home to go back to anymore…
The hostel warden and other staff had become my new family. Here, I finally felt accepted and taken care of. After I turned 18, they even made me floor-in-charge for one of the floors of the hostel (since I could not be a resident anymore). They were the only people I felt I could depend on.
Until I fell in love with the wrong man.
Sanjay was significantly older than me – perhaps, by about 15 years, definitely more than 10. He was a shopkeeper near the hostel. I used to go to his shop sometimes to buy some groceries. I never noticed him but he started flirting with me one day.
I didn’t respond to it for some time but he was relentless. Every day, he would propose that we start up with something. Eventually I started talking to him. We exchanged numbers. We started talking all day. I’d even write letters to him.
The hostel people found out and they didn’t approve of the age difference. But I said I was in love with Sanjay and that I intended to marry him. I convinced them that I was serious about it and so was he. Therefore, they went off to talk to his family about the relationship.
They came back and told me something I never expected to hear: it turned out that the man I was in love with had been married for three years; he had one child, and another one was on the way.
I couldn’t believe this. For a long time, I didn’t believe it. Then one day, his wife called me. She had found one of my letters to him. She screamed at me a lot on the phone. And then I could no longer deny the truth of the situation…
All this turned my new family against me. I was asked to leave, and that is how I ended up here at Shakti Shalini. Or maybe it was because you can’t stay in the hostel past the age of 19… But they no longer speak to me.
If I could change one thing in life, it would be this. I wish they’d talk to me once again. I miss them all very much.
The Seventh Mystery: The First Revelation: This is Me
I don’t know why I still find it difficult to let go of the feelings I have for Sanjay when I know that everything he ever said to me was a lie…Or why I always love like it’s a drug… Maybe it’s about finally feeling like I belong somewhere. With Sanjay, I had imagined a whole life together. It’s very painful to accept that this’ll never happen.
And there’s so much more I have learnt about myself in all this time…
I know I can take care of myself. I know I can stand up for myself. I know now when someone’s touch feels wrong. For a long time, I didn’t know how to feel or think about these things… I used to be so shut down. I had no control over what I would eat or drink… I could not make any decisions at all.
But now I can fight for myself and others.
I am grateful I am out of the brothel. I am grateful Nakul got me out of it even if he tried to kill me later. I am grateful I got to experience care at the hostel, even if they don’t speak to me anymore.
And I know now what makes me happy:
Making fried rice and momos for myself and everyone else
Travelling to new places — I went to Jim Corbett with the hostel people and loved it!
Meeting new people, making new friends — like at my new workplace!
Earning my own money — I hope to buy myself a phone soon.
Wearing nice clothes and accessorising how I please — I love matching clothes to jewellery.
Listening to songs – this always makes me smile, and I love the feeling.
Dancing – I dance quite well, and I like learning new steps and choreography.
The way my life keeps changing and moving, no matter what happens; people leave, yes, but new people also keep arriving and isn’t that the best part?
From Public Domain
Sumona (pseudonym) is 19 years old and hails from Darjeeling in West Bengal. Currently she working as a Child Caregiver with a family based out of Delhi. Sumona loves her piping hot momos with spicy chutney and finds peace and solace when she spends time with children.
[1] “pandies and Shaktishalini – different in terms of the work they do but firmly aligned in terms of ideological beliefs and where they stand and speak from. It goes back to 1996 when members of the theatre group went to the Shaktishalini office to research on (Dayan Hatya) witch burning for a production and got the chance to learn from the iconic leaders of Shaktishalini, Apa Shahjahan and Satya Rani Chadha. And collaborative theatre and theatre therapy goes back there. It is a mutual learning space that has survived over 25 years. Collaborative and interactive, this space creates anti-patriarchal and anti-communal street and proscenium performances and provides engaging workshop theatre with survivors of domestic and societal patriarchal violence. Many times we have sat together till late night, in small or large groups debating what constitutes violence? Or what would be gender equality in practical, real terms? These and many such questions will be raised in the stories that follow.” — Sanjay Kumar
Grace M Sukanya, the translator, has facilitated workshops with Shaktishalini through 2020 and 2025, and been associated with pandies’ theatre since 2020 in various capacities.
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