Japan is generally considered a safe country with a low crime rate. I feel comfortable walking around our neighbourhood alone, in the dark. In fact, I usually go for a walk in the evening after dinner, when night has already fallen. My walking course is mostly along sidewalks, generally well-lit, and the roads are well-traveled. Part of my usual course goes through a tunnel which is across the street from a large shopping mall.
I’d never had any concerns until a couple of months ago when I discovered a tent in the corner of the tunnel. How odd! Once or twice, I’d come across skateboarding teens, but never anyone who seemed to be living there. I couldn’t tell if anyone was inside, cuddled up within canvas. It was zipped shut, and malodourous. I hurried past, hoping it would be gone the next day, but it was still there.
While Japan is a very safe country, bad things sometimes do happen here. There was the guy who dressed up like the Joker and lit a fire on a Tokyo subway on Halloween. There was the woman who killed her neighbors by poisoned curry. Every now and then, some knife-wielding psycho starts slashing strangers in a crowd.
I mentioned the tent to my husband. He thought it was strange, too.
“But there is a camera in the tunnel,” I said.
‘It’s just for show,” he countered. “It’s probably not activated.”
“Maybe I should tell the police,” I said. After I had thought about it, though, I changed my mind. Maybe someone was fleeing an abusive home. Maybe an elderly person who couldn’t make rent was holed up inside. Even though I suspected the worst — some crazed criminal lying in wait — it was possible that there was a perfectly good explanation.
Nevertheless, I avoided going for a walk for the rest of the week. A few days later, I decided that it would probably be safe if I crossed the road instead of going through the tunnel. I set out after dark, as usual, but when I got to the crosswalk before the tunnel, I waited for the light. I saw a patrol car parked on the other side of the road, and two policemen waiting to cross. Maybe I should tell them about the tent, I thought. But I said nothing. We crossed paths without a word.
As I watched them, I realised that they already knew about the situation in the tunnel. That’s where they were headed. I observed as they made their way to the tent and peered at it. I felt sure that everything would be back to normal the next day.
But it wasn’t.
The next time I drove by, I noticed that the tent was still standing. Maybe no one had been inside of it when the police officers dropped by to check it out. Maybe they had left it standing out of consideration for the person who was using it for shelter. Or maybe it was more of a trap, so that they could catch the person when they came back.
At any rate, I was relieved that the police were aware of the tent, and that I no longer had to feel conflicted about whether or not I called them. I continued to cross the road instead of going through the tunnel.
A couple of weeks later, my husband and I had dinner with a friend who often went jogging. She knew about the tent, too, and remarked on how odd it was. No one seemed to know what was going on. I’d heard of out-of-work men sleeping on scraps of cardboard in a Tokyo park, but there were no homeless people in our small town. Not that I knew of, anyway.
Finally, my husband came back from a visit to the shopping mall one evening. He told me that he’d seen a police car and an ambulance near the tent. After that, it was gone. I scanned the local newspaper the next day and watched the evening news, but no one mentioned the tent in the tunnel. Maybe I would never find out what had happened.
I thought of other potentially scandalous events that had never been reported — a preschool teacher knifed by her ex-boyfriend on school grounds, a principal who’d hung himself in his office — and I realised that many things were kept under wraps.
I was reminded not to take my personal safety for granted. It also occurred to me that while people in small towns often complain that everyone knows everyone else’s business, the folks in the small town where I lived were good at keeping each other’s secrets, too.
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Suzanne Kamatawas born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Our home is our planet with it’s unique combinations which have made life possible. These evolve and mutate with human intervention and the passage of time. The changes affect the flora and the fauna — of which we are a part — of this beautiful green planet. The World Environment Day is a UN initiative to protect the environment and to create an awareness about the changes wrought on it and how it could impact us as a species. Writers from yore have written of the beauty and the inspiration invoked by nature as have the moderns. Today, we share with you vintage writings as well as modern writing in prose on the world around us, showcasing the concerns of a century ago and the reality today.
Vintage Prose
One Small Ancient Tale: Rabindranath Tagore’s Ekti Khudro Puraton Golpo (One Small Ancient Tale) has been translated by Nishat Atiya. Click hereto read.
Bolai: Story of nature and a child translated by Chaitali Sengupta. Click hereto read.
Baraf Pora (Snowfall) : This narrative gives a glimpse of Tagore’s first experience of snowfall in Brighton and published in the Tagore family journal, Balak (Children), has been translated by Somdatta Mandal . Clickhere to read.
The Day of Annihilation, an essay on climate change by Kazi Nazrul Islam, has been translated from Bengali by Radha Chakravarty. Clickhereto read.
Modern Prose
The Gift : Rebecca Klassen shares a sensitive fiction about a child and an oak tree. Click here to read.
A Penguin’s Story: Sreelekha Chatterjee writes a fiction from a penguin’s perspective. Clickhere to read.
Navigational Error: Luke P.G. Draper explores the impact of pollution with a short compelling narrative. Click here to read.
Pigeons & People : In his fiction, Srinivasan R explores human nature and imagines impact on our fauna. Click here to read
The Theft of a River: Koushiki Dasgupta Chaudhuri reveals a poignant truth about how a river is moving towards disappearance due to human intervention. Clickhereto read.
Potable Water Crisis & the Sunderbans: Camellia Biswas, a visitor to Sunderbans during the cyclone Alia, turns environmentalist and writes about the potable water issue faced by locals. Click here to read.
In Did He Ever?,Rhys Hughes gives fun-filled verses on Lafcadio Hearn, a bridge between the East and West from more than a hundred years ago. Clickhere to read.
Dolly Narang muses on Satyajit Ray’s world beyond films and shares a note by the maestro and an essay on his art by the eminent artist, Paritosh Sen. Clickhere to read.
Poetry, prose — all art forms — gather our emotions into concentrates that distil perhaps the finest in human emotions. They touch hearts across borders and gather us all with the commonality of feelings. We no longer care for borders drawn by divisive human constructs but find ourselves connecting despite distances. Strangers or enemies can feel the same emotions. Enemies are mostly created to guard walls made by those who want to keep us in boxes, making it easier to manage the masses. It is from these mass of civilians that soldiers are drawn, and from the same crowds, we can find the victims who die in bomb blasts. And yet, we — the masses — fight. For whom, for what and why? A hundred or more years ago, we had poets writing against wars and violence…they still do. Have we learnt nothing from the past, nothing from history — except to repeat ourselves in cycles? By now, war should have become redundant and deadly weapons out of date artefacts instead of threats that are still used to annihilate cities, humans, homes and ravage the Earth. Our major concerns should have evolved to working on social equity, peace, human welfare and climate change.
One of the people who had expressed deep concern for social equity and peace through his films and writings was Satyajit Ray. This issue has an essay that reflects how he used art to concretise his ideas by Dolly Narang, a gallery owner who brought Ray’s handiworks to limelight. The essay includes the maestro’s note in which he admits he considered himself a filmmaker and a writer but never an artist. But Ray had even invented typefaces! Artist Paritosh Sen’s introduction to Ray’s art has been included to add to the impact of Narang’s essay. Another person who consolidates photography and films to do pathbreaking work and tell stories on compelling issues like climate change and helping the differently-abled is Vijay S Jodha. Ratnottama Sengupta has interviewed this upcoming artiste.
Reflecting the themes of welfare and conflict, Prithvijeet Sinha’s essay takes us to a monument in Lucknow that had been built for love but fell victim to war. Some conflicts are personal like the ones of Odbayar Dorj who finds acceptance not in her hometown in Mongolia but in the city, she calls home now. Jun A. Alindogan from Manila explores social media in action whereas Eshana Sarah Singh takes us to her home in Jakarta to celebrate the Chinese New Year! Farouk Gulsara looks into the likely impact of genetic engineering in a world already ripped by violence and Devraj Singh Kalsi muses on his source of inspiration, his writing desk. Meredith Stephens tells the touching story of a mother’s concern for her child in Australia and Suzanne Kamata exhibits the same concern as she travels to Happy Village in Japan to meet her differently-abled daughter and her friends.
As these real-life narratives weave commonalities of human emotions, so do fictive stories. Some reflect the need for change. Fiona Sinclair writes a layered story set in London on how lived experiences define differences in human perspectives while Parnika Shirwaikar explores the need to learn to accept changes set in her part of the universe. Spandan Upadhyay explores the spirit of the city of Kolkata as a migrant with a focus on social equity. Both Paul Mirabile and Naramsetti Umamaheswararao write stories around childhood, one set in Europe and the other in Asia.
Do pause by our contents page for this issue and enjoy the reads. We are ever grateful to our ever-growing evergreen readership some of whom have started sharing their fabulous narratives with us. Thanks to all our readers and contributors. Huge thanks to our wonderful team without whose efforts we could not have curated such valuable content and thanks specially to Sohana Manzoor for her art. Thank you all for making a whiff of an idea a reality!
A few weeks ago, my daughter invited me to go on an outing with her and her helper. My daughter, who is deaf and uses a wheelchair, lives in a group home in Osaka. She is becoming more and more independent, but she does have kind people around her to give her support, including a helper who is also deaf and uses Japanese Sign Language.
Actually, my daughter invited our entire family to accompany her and her helper on a weekend to Happy Village, a recreational facility in Kobe especially for persons with disabilities. We had visited the onsite stables years ago, and our twins had ridden around a ring on ponies. Having such pleasant memories of the place, I looked forward to visiting again.
My husband declined due to a golf tournament, and my son, who had just entered college as a graduate student, was concerned that he would have too much homework. My daughter informed me that her brother would meet us for a meal.
Although I was looking forward to seeing my daughter and getting to know her helper, I did have a few concerns. For one, I don’t have the confidence to drive in the megapolises of Japan. Kobe, for example, is a confusing city with many ramps, overpasses, and one-way streets, not to mention the traffic. I knew that Happy Village was on the outskirts, however, and I thought that maybe I could get myself there by car. I could have gone by bus or train, but it would have taken me two or three times as long to get there.
In addition, I was a bit worried about communication. I can converse with my daughter, more or less, in Japanese Sign Language, but my signing is not perfect. Since leaving home, my daughter’s vocabulary has expanded, and her signing has sped up. When among fluent JSL users, I can’t always follow the flurry of their fingers. Nevertheless, I know that my daughter often struggles to keep up with what hearing people are saying, and I thought it would be a valuable experience.
A couple days before, my daughter sent me a Google Maps link to the restaurant where we would meet. We would have a meal and then proceed to Happy Village. On the day of, I packed a bag, filled my car with gas, and set out. I had no idea what we would be doing. On trips with my husband, every hour was pre-planned. I thought it would be nice to just go with the flow. I was looking forward to seeing my two kids.
I managed to arrive at the restaurant with ten minutes to spare. I staked out a table and sat down to wait. While perusing my phone, I came across a link that I thought would interest my son. I sent it to him. He replied with a laughing emoji, followed by “Are you coming to Kobe tomorrow?”
A cold sweat broke out over me. “Tomorrow? I thought it was today.”
“She told me tomorrow,” he texted back.
“Oh, no.” I quickly scrolled through our communications and confirmed that we were indeed meeting him the following day. It was now ten minutes after the time I had agreed to rendezvous with my daughter at this restaurant. Or so I thought. Was I supposed to meet her tomorrow? Would I have to find a hotel for the night?
Panicking, I sent my daughter a text and a photo of the restaurant. “I’m here!”
She texted back that they would be a little late, and that there would be six of them.
Six! I had thought that there would only be the three of us. Now I was feeling really intimidated. I am an introvert, and I know my limits. The more people there are around me, the more I retreat into myself. Plus, there was the issue of communication.
Finally, my daughter and her entourage arrived. I met her helper, the helper’s husband, the helper’s twin sister, an older woman with cropped hair and rainbow socks, and a young man about my daughter’s age. We got down to the business of ordering food via the tablet on the table, and sorting our basic facts, such as my age, and that we would be meeting my son the following day at Sannomiya Station.
Sannomiya Station! That was in a busy district in the heart of Kobe. I hadn’t known that we were actually going into the city. I managed to sign that I was scared of driving in such an unfamiliar place. I was beginning to realise that I should have pried more details about this trip out of my daughter beforehand.
Three hours later, I followed the others in my car to Happy Village. My daughter and I were in one room, the others in their own rooms. By this time, my social battery was waning. I was ready to take a bath and curl up in bed with a book. My daughter, who is an extrovert, went down the hall for a couple more hours of JSL conversation and cake with her friends.
The next morning, we checked out of the hotel and stopped by the stables. Just as before, children rode ponies around the ring. My daughter zoomed around in her wheelchair, and the rest of us tried to keep up.
Next, we dropped by the helper’s apartment. I was invited to leave my car in the parking garage, and ride in the car with the others, for which I was very grateful. As we headed toward Kobe, I noted how quiet it was inside the car. No one tried to talk or sign. It would have been dangerous for the driver to take his hands off the wheel to form words, or to look away from the road for too long.
We finally connected with my son, and went to a restaurant. Because there were so many of us, we split up. My kids and I sat at one table, and the others sat at another. I brought my son up in English, and it remains our lingua franca. After my son and daughter exchanged a few words in sign language, my son and I talked a bit about the recent political situation in the United States. Although my daughter was curious, I couldn’t quite explain to her what we were talking about in JSL. I encouraged her to write notes to her brother. They communicated by pen and paper for a while.
After lunch, my son went back to his apartment to prepare a PowerPoint for his class the next day. The rest of us wandered around the city, window-shopping, until it was time for me to leave. My daughter wasn’t ready to go home, so the helper’s husband offered to give me a ride back to my car.
On the way, he said, “When you were talking to your son, your daughter didn’t understand.”
“That’s true,” I conceded. “We were speaking in English.” Although I had wanted to bring up my daughter in English, circumstances made it too difficult. Yet, my son was the only one in our family that I could freely communicate with in my native language.
“I felt sorry for her,” the helper’s husband continued.
I nodded. I had an idea of how my daughter felt. Although I had lived in Japan for many years, I often didn’t fully understand what people were saying around me.
He activated an app on his smartphone, which was affixed to the dashboard, which rendered spoken words into text. He suggested that my daughter could use such an app. I tried to explain that she already knew how to use the app, but for some reason she hadn’t tried to employ it in the restaurant.
I guess I could have been offended by his words, but instead I was moved. I was happy that my daughter was surrounded by people who cared so much about her, who were looking out for her best interests. How wonderful that she had finally found her tribe.
Suzanne Kamatawas born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Offerings during Qing Ming Jie, a festival honouring ancestorsSongkran(Thai New Year) CelebrationsFestivals in April: From Public Domain
April is a month full of celebrations around the world. Asia hosts a spray of New Year festivities. Then there are festivals like Qing Ming Jie, Good Friday and Easter. All these are in a way reminders of our past. And yet, we critique things as old fashioned! So, where does tradition end and ‘outdated’ or ‘outmoded’ start? Meanwhile we continue to celebrate these festivals with joy but what happens to those who have lost their home, family and their living due to war or climate disasters? Can they too join in with the joie de vivre? Can we take our celebrations to them to give solace in some way?
In our April issue, we have stories from climate and conflict-ridden parts of the world. From Bangkok, Amy Sawitta Lefevre gives an eyewitness account of the March 28th Earthquake that originated in Myanmar. While in her city, the disaster was managed, she writes: “I’m also thinking of all the children in Myanmar who are sleeping in the open, who lost loved ones, who are feeling scared and alone, with no one to reassure them.” As news reels tell us, in Myanmar there have been thousands of casualties from the earthquake as well as shootings by the army.
From another troubled region, Pakistan, Zeeshan Nasir gives a heartrending narrative about climate change, which also dwells on the human suffering, including increase in underage marriages.
Human suffering can be generated by rituals and customs too. For instance, if festivals dwell on exclusivity, they can hurt those who are left out of the celebrations. Odbayar Dorje muses along those lines on Mongolian traditions and calls for inclusivity and the need to change norms. On the other hand, Devraj Singh Kalsi hums with humour as he reflects on social norms and niceties and hints at the need for change in a light-hearted manner. Farouk Gulsara makes us laugh with the antics of his spoilt pet cat. And Suzanne Kamata dwells on her animal sightings in Kruger National Park with her words and camera while Meredith Stephens takes us sailing on stormy seas… that too at night.
Art is brought into focus by Ratnottama Sengupta who introduces artist Haren Thakur with his adaptation of tribal styles that has been compared to that of Paul Klee (1879-1940). She also converses with filmmaker Leslie Carvalho, known for his film The Outhouse, and his new novel, Smoke on the Backwaters. Both of these have a focus on the Anglo-Indian community in India. Also writing on Indian film trends of the 1970s is Tamara Raza. Bhaskar Parichha pays tribute to the late Ramakanta Rath (1934-2025), whose powerful and touching poetry, translated from Odia by the poet himself, can be found in our translations section.
We have an excerpt from Professor Fakrul Alam’s unpublished translation of Tagore’sRed Oleanders. It’s a long play and truly relevant for our times. Somdatta Mandal shares with us her translation of Tagore’s essay called ‘The Classification in Society’, an essay where the writer dwells on the need for change in mindsets of individuals that make up a community to move forward. A transcreation of a poem by Tagore for his birthday in 1935 reflects the darkness he overcame in his own life. Two poems expressive of longings by Jibananada Das have been translated from Bengali by Professor Alam aswell. From Balochistan, we have an excerpt from the first Balochi novel, Nazuk, written by the late Syad Zahoor Shah Hashmi and rendered into English by Fazal Baloch. Among contemporaries, we have a short story by Bitan Chakraborty translated from Bengali by Kiriti Sengupta, a poignant story that reflects on gaps in our society. And a Korean poem by Ihlwha Choi rendered to English by the poet himself.
This issue has been made possible because of support from all of you. Huge thanks to the team, all our contributors and readers. Thanks to Sohana Manzoor for her fabulous artwork. Do pause by our contents page as all the content could not be covered here.
Perhaps, world events leave a sense of pensiveness in all of us and an aura of insecurity. But, as Scarlett O’ Hara of Gone with the Wind[2] fame says, “After all, tomorrow is another day.”
Looking forward to a new day with hope, let’s dream of happier times filled with sunshine and change.
On our third morning in the Lowveld, my travel companion and I woke up at 4:00 A.M. for our third game drive in Kruger National Park. We’d signed up for this over a year ago when we first booked ourselves on this group tour. We didn’t know then that it would be raining.
The other ten members of our group had chosen other options. Some were planning to hang out at the lodge, probably anticipating a day of lounging by the pool while kudu and impalas lingered nearby nibbling grass. Another cohort had signed up for a different sightseeing tour, involving waterfalls, with a later starting time. My friend and I were here, however, for the animals.
She and I had first met in Japan. We’d lived in the same town. Our kids had gone to the same schools, and we’d taught at the same universities. When she had moved back to Australia, we’d remained in touch. Both of us loved to travel, and both had dreamed of going on safari in Africa. Neither of us knew of anyone else who shared the same dream, so we vowed to go together. I had imagined that it would be years before I would be able to afford such a trip, but a little over a year ago, she’d come across a great deal. And now here we were, in South Africa.
Half-asleep, we quickly dressed, stuffed our sack-breakfasts into our backpacks, and stumbled out the heavy wooden door into the still dark morning. A light rain was falling. Although signs warned of roaming wild animals, and we’d seen plenty, it seemed safe to walk up to the office building to find our driver. His Toyota safari truck was already parked outside. After a few minutes, he appeared, and we climbed into the back middle seats of the open-sided truck, hoping to stay clear of the rain.
Our driver and guide, a local who drove 20-40 kilometers per hour over the speed limit and doled out one interesting animal fact per sighting, handed us lined ponchos to keep us warm on the forty-minute drive to the park. Then we zoomed off, passing pecan and macadamia groves, on the way to Numbi Gate. People were already waiting at bus stops along the way, probably on their way to work.
As the sky gradually lightened, we could make out the names of the shops along the road: Dragon Flame Car Wash, No Error Driving School, Drama’s Sneaker Wash, God is Able Beauty Salon, and an alarming number of small businesses offering funeral services.
When we finally reached the entrance to the game park, the guide parked and got out to register. Although the parking area had been crowded the previous two days, on this morning, we were the only ones there.
We had seen quite a few animals over the past two days, including elephants, giraffes, zebras, a rare white rhino, and a mama lion and cubs, albeit from a distance. We rattled off our wish list to the guide.
“A hippo out of the water,” my friend said. “And a male lion.”
I had been lucky enough to see both on a previous trip to Rwanda, but I had yet to see a leopard, one of the so-called “big five,” or a cheetah.
“When is the last time you saw a leopard or a cheetah?” I asked.
“I saw a leopard a week ago,” he said. “And a cheetah yesterday.”
He warned us, however, that because of the rain, we might not see anything at all. The animals might be seeking shelter. We understood and accepted that.
A few minutes into our drive, he braked the truck and pointed out a turtle making its way across the road. Understanding that this might be our biggest sighting of the day, I took a video of the creature with my smartphone. Soon after, we spotted some impalas. Although we’d seen so many the two days before that the guide no longer stopped for them, on this morning, we gave them our full attention.
And then we saw something unusual—a pack of African wild dogs alongside and in the middle of the road. I had never seen canines with such colouring. Their fur was brown and black, almost tortoiseshell. These dogs were featured on a signboard at the park entrance indicating the day’s sightings.
“There are only about 150 of these dogs in the park,” our guide told us. He mentioned that they were expert hunters, that they attacked in groups. Since Kruger National Park is vast, with an area of 19,485 square kilometers, much of the terrain being well away from the road, I realized how lucky we were to see these dogs. They trotted along, sniffing at the road, mindless of the truck slowly following them.
By this time, the rain had let up. Although we did not manage to see any hippos out of the water (they mostly come out at night to eat grass), we did see a herd of wildebeest, some vervet monkeys, an elephant, a water buffalo, baboons, and a Martial eagle perched on a high bare branch. And then our guide got a message on his phone and said, “From now, we’re not stopping for anything. Someone has spotted some cheetahs.”
As he sped ahead, we crossed our fingers and readied our cameras. I expected the cheetahs to be far off in the distance, where they wouldn’t be scared off by the sound of cars, as the lions were. Why else would they stay in one place long enough for us to reach them? As it turned out, however, five cheetah cubs were gathered together, sitting still, gazing intently into the bush. They were near the road, only about fifty meters away.
“They’re waiting for their mother,” the guide said. “Maybe she will come back while we are waiting.”
My friend and I took turns admiring them through binoculars. How patiently they watched the impalas nearby. How diligently they groomed themselves. They were gorgeous, leaving us breathless.
We waited awhile, but there were others eager to see them, so our guide suggested it was time to move on. “Are you happy?” he asked us.
“Yes, very,” we both said.
Later, as we returned to the lodge, we thought about how jealous the rest of the group would be when they heard about the cheetahs. The rain started to fall again.
Suzanne Kamatawas born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Jibanananda Das’ poems on war and for the common masses have been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.
A Scene with an Aged Queen, a poem by Ihlwha Choi has been translated from Korean by the poet himself. Clickhere to read.
Tagore’sEsho Bosonto, Esho Aj Tumi(Come Spring, Come Today) has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Click here to read.
Pandies’ Corner
For Sanjay Kumar: To Sir — with Love has been written for the founder of pandies’ theatre by Tanvir, a youngster from the Nithari village where pandies’ worked with traumatised victims. Over time, these kids have transcended the trauma to lead fulfilling lives. The late Sanjay Kumar passed on this January. This is a tribute to him by one of his students. It has been translated from the Hindustani original by Lourdes M Surpiya. Click here to read.
Drops of water gather to make a wave. The waves make oceans that reshape land masses over time…
Five years ago, on March 14th, in the middle of the pandemic, five or six of us got together to start an online forum called Borderless Journal. The idea was to have a space that revelled with the commonality of felt emotions. Borderless was an attempt to override divisive human constructs and bring together writers and ideators from all over the Earth to have a forum open to all people — a forum which would be inclusive, tolerant, would see every individual as a part of the fauna of this beautiful planet. We would be up in the clouds — afloat in an unbordered stratosphere— to meet and greet with thoughts that are common to all humans, to dream of a world we can have if we choose to explore our home planet with imagination, kindness and love. It has grown to encompass contributors from more than forty countries, and readers from all over the world — people who have the same need to reach out to others with felt emotions and common concerns.
Borderless not only celebrates the human spirit but also hopes to create over time a vibrant section with writings on the environment and climate change. We launch the new section today on our fifth anniversary.
Devraj Singh Kalsi with a soupçon of ironic amusement muses on humans’ attitude to the fauna around him and Farouk Gulsara lays on a coating of sarcasm while addressing societal norms. Meredith Stephens brings us concerns for a green Earth when she beachcombs in a remote Australian island. Prithvijeet Sinha continues to familiarise us with his city, Lucknow. Suzanne Kamata, on the other hand travels to Rwanda to teach youngsters how to write a haiku!
Professor Fakrul Alam takes us to libraries in Dhaka with the hope that more will start writing about the waning of such paradises for book lovers. Other than being the month that hosts World Environment Day, March also homes, International Women’s Day. Commemorating the occasion, we have essays from Meenakshi Malhotra on the past poetry of women and from Ratnottama Sengupta on women in Bengali Cinema. Sengupta has also interviewed Poulami Bose Chatterjee, the daughter of the iconic actor Soumitra Chatterjee to share with us less-known vignettes from the actor’s life. Keith Lyons has interviewed Malaysian writer-editor Daphne Lee to bring to us writerly advice and local lores on ghosts and hauntings.
We also have a translation by Lourdes M Supriya from Hindustani of a student’s heartrending cry to heal from grief for a teacher who faced an untimely end — a small dirge from Tanvir, a youngster with his roots in Nithari violence who transcended his trauma to teach like his idol and tutor, the late Sanjay Kumar. With this, we hope to continue with the pandies corner, with support from Lourdes and Anuradha Marwah, Kumar’s partner.
Borderless has grown in readership by leaps and bounds. There have been requests for books with writings from our site. On our fifth anniversary, we plan to start bringing out the creative writing housed in Borderless Journal in different volumes. We had brought out an anthology in 2022. It was well received with many reviews. But we have many gems, and each writer is valued here. Therefore, Rhys Hughes, one of our editorial board members, has kindly consented to create a new imprint to bring out books from the Borderless Journal. We are very grateful to him.
We are grateful to the whole team, our contributors and readers for being with us through our journey. We would not have made it this far without each one of you. Special thanks to Sohana Manzoor for her artwork too, something that has almost become synonymous with the cover page of our journal. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart.
Wish you all happy reading! Do pause by our content’s page and take a look at all the wonderful writers.
Tumi Kon Kanoner Phulby Tagore andAnjali Loho Morby Nazrul, love songs by the two greats, have been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click hereto read.
One Life, One Love, 300 Children : Keith Lyons writes of Tendol Gyalzur, a COVID 19 victim, a refugee and an orphan who found new lives for many other orphans with love and an ability to connect. Click here to read.
When West Meets East & Greatness Blooms: Debraj Mookerjee reflects on how syncretism impacts greats like Tagore,Tolstoy, Emerson, Martin Luther King Jr, Gandhi and many more. Click here to read.
Dilip Kumar: Kohinoor-e-Hind: In a tribute to Bollywood legend Dileep Kumar, Ratnottama Sengupta, one of India’s most iconic arts journalists, recollects the days the great actor sprinted about on the sets of Bombay’s studios …spiced up with fragments from the autobiography of Sengupta’s father, Nabendu Ghosh. Click here to read.
Are Some of Us More Human than Others ?: Meenakshi Malhotra ponders at the exclusivity that reinforces divisions, margins and borders that continue to plague humankind, against the backdrop of the Women’s Month, March. Click here to read.
Reminiscences from a Gallery: MF Husain: Dolly Narang recounts how she started a gallery more than four decades ago and talks of her encounter with world renowned artist, MF Husain. Click hereto read.
Baraf Pora (Snowfall) by Rabindranath Tagore,gives a glimpse of his first experience of snowfall in Brighton and published in the Tagore family journal, Balak (Children), has been translated from Bengali by Somdatta Mandal. Clickhere to read.
Cherry Blossom Forecast: Suzanne Kamata brings the Japanese ritual of cherry blossom viewing to our pages with her camera and words. Clickhere to read.
Two Pizza Fantasies, Rhys Hughes recounts myths around the pizza in prose, fiction and poetry, Click here to read.
An Alien on the Altar!: Snigdha Agrawal writes of how a dog and lizard add zest to festivities with a dollop of humour. Click here to read.
Where it all Began: Sybil Pretious recounts her first adventure, an ascent on Mt Kilimanjaro at the age of sixty. Clickhere to read.
Conversations
Rabindranath Tagore: A Universal Bard.: This conversation between Aruna Chakravarti and Sunil Gangopadhyay that took place at a Tagore Conference organised by the Sahitya Akademi in Kochy in 2011. Click here to read.
Sriniketan: Tagore’s “Life Work”: In Conversation with Professor Uma Das Gupta, Tagore scholar, author of A History of Sriniketan, where can be glimpsed what Tagore considered his ‘life’s work’ as an NGO smoothening divides between villagers and the educated. Click here to read. (Review & Interview).
In conversation with the late Akbar Barakzai, a Balochi poet in exile who rejected an award from Pakistan Academy of Letters for his principles. Click here to read.
Jim Goodman, an American traveler, author, ethnologist and photographer who has spent the last half-century in Asia, converses with Keith Lyons. Click here to read.
InBridge over Troubled Waters, the late Sanjay Kumar tells us about Pandies, an activist theatre group founded by him that educates, bridging gaps between the divides of university educated and the less fortunate who people slums or terror zones. Click here to read.
In Lessons Old and New from a Stray Japanese Cat, Keith Lyons talks with the author of The Cat with Three Passports, CJ Fentiman who likes the anonymity loaned by resettling in new places & enjoys creating a space for herself away from her birthplace. Click hereto read.
Fiction
Aparichitaby Tagore: This short story has been translated as The Stranger by Aruna Chakravarti. Click hereto read.
Hena by Nazrul has been translated from Bengali by Sohana Manzoor. Click here to read.
Playlets byRabindranath Tagore: Two skits that reveal the lighter side of the poet. They have been translated from Bengali by Somdatta Mandal. Click here to read.
Abhagi’s Heaven, a poignant story by Saratchandra Chattopadhyay translated by Aruna Chakravarti. Click here to read.
An Eternal Void, a Balochi story by Munir Ahmed Badini translated by Fazal Baloch. Click hereto read.
The Witch, a short story by renowned Bengali writer Tarasankar Bandopadhyay (1898 to 1971), translated by Aruna Chakravarti. Clickhere to read.
I Grew into a Flute: Balochi Folktale involving magic retold by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.
Give Me A Rag, Please:A short story by Nabendu Ghosh, translated by Ratnottama Sengupta, set in the 1943 Bengal Famine, which reflects on man’s basic needs. Click here to read
Rakhamaninov’s Sonata: A short story by Sherzod Artikov, translated from Uzbeki by Nigora Mukhammad. Click hereto read.
The Magic Staff , a poignant short story about a Rohingya child by Shaheen Akhtar, translated from Bengali by Arifa Ghani Rahman. Click here to read.
Khaira, the Blind, a story by Nadir Ali, has been translated from Punjabi by Amna Ali. Click here to read.
The Browless Dolls by S.Ramakrishnan, has been translated from Tamil by B Chandramouli. Click hereto read.
No Man’s Land: Sohana Manzoor gives us surrealistic story reflecting on after-life. Click hereto read.
The Protests Outside: Steve Ogah talks of trauma faced by riot victims in Nigeria. Click here to read.
Flash Fiction: Turret: Niles M Reddick relates a haunting tale of ghosts and more. Click here to read.
Henrik’s Journey: Farah Ghuznavi follows a conglomerate of people on board a flight to address issues ranging from Rohingyas to race bias. Click hereto read.
Does this Make Me a Psychic?; Erwin Coombs tells a suspenseful, funny, poignant and sad story, based on his real life experiences. Click here to read.
Phôs and Ombra: Paul Mirabile weaves a dark tale about two people lost in a void. Click here to read.
A Queen is Crowned: Farhanaz Rabbani traces the awakening of self worth. Click here to read.
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