Tag: Tamil

Islands that Belong to the Seas

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date August 14, 2023
No Comments on Islands that Belong to the Seas

By Paul Mirabile

Islands belong to oceans and seas and lakes. They are born within the deepest depths of the marine underworld like infants in the depths of their mothers’ wombs. Born often from surging volcanic eruptions, the molten lava hardens into rock. The rock is smoothed by ocean-swept sands that turn fecund over time. They are gradually populated by migrating birds who rest their weary wings and deposit seeds from which sprout rich and luxuriant vegetation. To these shingled or sandy shores, little by little, pirates, buccaneers, conquistadors, renegades, the exiled or self-exiled, slaves, missionaries and migrant workers come to explore and eventually settle.

They all come flocking to this primordial land floating in the waters of the world, birds and humans, animals too follow. Bees buzz their contentment, donkeys hee-haw, goats baa and mosquitoes whine. And yet the islands do not belong to any one of these creatures. They belong to the oceans and seas and lakes — their creators and benefactors.

Ah! The birth of an island! The centre of which rises high above those shingled or sandy shores, the dense jungles or arid scrub, where Vulcan in rampant rage had spat out smouldering rock and tongues of lava. There they now waft as if levitating from their aqueous-bed, home to a new Humanity …

Since my childhood, whenever I poured over maps my eyes would invariably fall on the islands that dotted the oceans or seas or lakes of our world. They held a more significant, a more imaginative, a stronger attraction for me, ones with which I could empathise. For Sicily was my genealogical point of attachment on those maps, a legacy of thirteen civilisations or so which had landed, settled or departed, leaving their immemorial traces both on the land, in the architecture, in our very mixed genes. Sicily is a perfect ‘officina‘[1] which I translate as the ‘melding of Humanity’ !

I day-dreamed while pouring over those frazzled maps and islands, whilst reading Jules Vernes’ Mysterious Island and Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe. Actually, I don’t believe that I love islands because of those novels (or any other), but they did arouse in me a sense of friendship, affection and human compassion towards islands because of the extraordinary diversity of their errant or settled communities, their many languages and customs, their manifold landscapes. Languages that have forged the hybrid compositions of Creole, forged inter-marriages, forged populations whose quotidian merges into the hybrid species of fauna and flora.

I read and read again and again the fabulous tale of Hayy Ibn Yaqzān[2] who lived on his uninhabited island amongst the plants, trees and animals, all alone in wondrous solitude, learning from them: his human qualities, his religion, his love of humanity and sympathy for every quintessential being or object that came into contact with him — be it mineral, vegetal, animal or eventually human …

Islands are bursting with nature and nature is a friend of humanity, thus islands are bursting with friendship — bursting with hybrid species … like their ethnicities and their languages. Even when Nature can become an enemy, this enmity offers islanders the possibility of strength and force through trial and error. When storms arise, they build sturdier homes. When dangerous interlopers reach their shores, they offer hospitality and eventual integration. Perilous sea creatures and beating waves against boulders demand of islanders to muster their ingenuity and imagination. To cultivate friendship, virtue ; to draw closer to one another ; to be able to live only in a way that conforms to Nature … to an island’s generous and bountiful treasures ; to befriend Nature and Humanity, for they are equal in diversity and disinterestedness.

I suddenly stopped dreaming of islands as they pinched with patriotism, narrow nationalism, circumscribed communitarianism. I stopped dreaming of islands and with my fingers touched Sicily, Cuba, Cyprus, Malta, Madeira, and the Princess Islands stringing out in the Marmara Sea. I slid them upon the island of Olkhon on Lake Baikal in Russia, the oldest and deepest in the world; an island where Shamanism, the oldest religion of the world, and Orthodox Christianity vie in relative peacefulness. There my fingers brushed against layers of civilisation, of ethnic blending, of howling winds and raging white-crested waves off boulders and high cliffs and laughing seagulls on the wing. There I heard a myriad of languages spoken by the communities of Humanity both in the public and the private domains: Greek, Turkish, Sicilian, Spanish, Italian, Maltese, Russian, Arabic, Jewish-Spanish, Norman, Armenian and so on. There swelled dark secrets of mythical creatures, of legendary figures whose wild wisdom infused a shroud of enigma that piqued my curiosity towards the universal sympathy that exudes from those aforesaid islands: the fragrance of bougainvillaea, wisteria, honeysuckle and jasmine, of ossified forests laden with the ice of deep winter, of the briny sea spray of stoic rocks, of cries of fishermen at the docks and those of traders at the markets. When I lift my finger that sacred moment, that spell which has been cast upon me vanishes from my waking state …

To Sicily, Cuba, Malta, Madeira Cyprus, Olkhon and to the Princess Islands I weighed anchor and set sail on various shaped vessels — ships that cleaved the high seas or navigated the coasts. At dawn upon disembarking, the colours of the skies drip from violet to orange to red to blue. The fishermen at the harbours or docks always asked me: “How do you like it ?”

“What, the island ?”

“Yes.”

“There is no point on Earth that rivals an island,” I would always repeat in sympathetic earnest.

On shore, wherever that shore be, we would drink coffee or tea in one of the wooden cooperatives for fishermen, traders and sailors. Chickens cackled, dogs barked, seagulls laughed whilst glasses and conversation chimed out the tunes of the islanders’ community spirit: tunes chanted in many tongues, gesticulated in many forms. I broke bread and filled my glass, observing the leathern faces of these hard-working tradesmen mending their nets, fitting their poles, scraping or painting their sea vessels … accomplishing their livelihood together as a whole.

“The wind is blowing from the southeast,” a rough-looking chap declared for all to ponder upon.

“That’s rain !” shouted another with a slight nod of his head.

And then I fell asleep in my bungalow and dreamt of dancing boats and throngs of fishermen talking about their fortunes or misfortunes. Villagers living near the rising waves filled my sleep with their colourful robes or coiffeurs, their daily gestures of sympathy to both nature and humanity.

Pouring over maps filled my childhood. Fingering the points that we call islands submerged me in oceanic rhapsody. Entire archipelagos coiling from North to South and West to East pervaded my soul with the rhythmic cadence of their tides. And as the tides beat out cosmological tunes, my dreams ended. I woke and embarked on many an island adventure in Sicily, Madeira, Cuba, Cyprus, Olkhon, Malta and on the Princess Islands. Points on the map became the unchartered lands of my great middle age sympathetic adventure. I had returned to the lands of my ancestors ! Ships had bore me to those points of human sympathy, exploring fantastic landscapes, communicating in innumerable tongues. There I breathed the air of island sovereignty, simplicity, silence and solitude.

I lived happily on all those islands. And in spite of certain prejudices and intolerances, I rejoiced living with the islanders who are good, heroic, honest and fair in their daily commerce. Who earn their daily living by the sweat of their brow and by the devotion to one another, whoever be that one or other. Inside the cafés faces furrowed by wind and sun concentrated on their drink or their cards or dominoes, whilst outside, hands hardened by generations of toil and moil, mended nets, built boats, cut fish, rowed boats. I rejoiced at all those acts of universal friendship.

I lived happily, intermingling with the melded species of plants, birds and humanity — not only as a spectator, but as an actor: the spectator who observes himself acting, and the actor who perceives his observations. Like in a dream … day and night !

It seemed to me like paradise. Paradise, a word derived from the Old Persian ‘pairidaëza‘ which meant ‘enclosure, a place walled in’: walled in or enclosed by its creator — the water ! But its meaning shifted when read by the Hebrews and became ‘pardēs‘ ‘a garden’. The Garden of Eden ? Yes, a garden so pristine and divine, yet possessing that infamous apple tree of the forbidden fruit. All paradises can descend into the bowels of Hell if tempted by a slithering, sly, snaky and insidious interloper … As we shall soon see !

At present the tides of time have consumed my youth, so I have decided to write a humble meditation about my mingling amongst the islanders of so many islands, of so many archipelagoes. I see them all from the porch of my bungalow, stretching out like a necklace of pearls. A pearly necklace cast in its oceanic casket. So I write and wander upon the silent, deserted roads of the many islands that I have treaded; that I have seen, touched, smelt and tasted. The time has hence come to render homage to those islands, to the nature of those islands, to the nature of those populations.

At this point, I expect readers will retort and point out that not all islands should benefit from such a distinguished homage: How about Cyprus, and the Turkish-Greek conflict ? And Sri Lanka and the terrible war that raged between 1983 and 2010 ? Japan and England, too, big islands indeed but islands, nevertheless. Was the subjugation of Welsh, Scot and Irish not enough? No, those English islanders set out on the high seas to subjugate other ethnic communities … other islands! The first being Ireland, invaded in the XIVth century and conquered uninterruptedly by Henry the Eighth and Oliver Cromwell. The ‘de-Irelandising’ of the island, or more appropriately formulated, the genocidal ‘civilising mission’ produced exile, persecution, misery and death until the founding of the Irish Free State in 1921 and finally the Republic of Ireland in 1949![3]

Were the Japanese not content to eliminate any foreign intrusion on their precious island ? No, they set out to decimate and enslave the ethnic communities that thrived on the islands of the Pacific: Guam, Wake Island, the Philippines, the Solomon Islands, the Aleutian Islands, etc. Japan’s violent and bloody imperialism during WW II, and England’s century’s long brutal colonisation have marked all our History books and memories of their so called ‘civilising missions’. Be it the imperialistic brutality in the lands of the rising sun or that of the setting, as the French say: c’est bonnet blanc et blanc bonnet ![4]

Yes, these counter examples are, alas, historically documented. Are they then accidents of history or sorrowful exceptions? I will answer that in the case of Cyprus, the Cypriots, a fine blend of Greek and Turkish ethnic commingling since the Middle Ages, with a sprinkling of English since King Richard the Lion Heart (1191), became the unfortunate victim of Britain’s ‘civilising mission’. One needs only to read Lawrence Durrell’s Bitter Lemons of Cyprus[5]to understand the sad and tragic events that erupted in the 1950s and their never-ending aftermath and continuity. Cyprus belongs neither to Greece nor to Turkey (and certainly not to Great Britain), but to the Cypriot Greek and Turk, who in turn know perfectly well that their grand island for centuries has always belonged and will always belong to the brilliant whiteness of the Mediterranean Sea! The tragedy that befell this island sprang from the combined effort of British cynicism, Greek nationalism and Turkish overweening military reaction.

As to Sri Lanka, Sinhalese and Tamils had been living together since the twelfth century, assuredly not under the most perfect idyllic neighbourly conduct, yet the intermingling populations, be they Hindu, Christian or Budddhist, carried out their daily lives without too many eruptive disturbances. It was only with the full British conquest in 1815, and their fancied game of pitting one community against another, there, favouring the Tamil populations of the island, that a slow but steady bitterness, rancour and animosity grew within the Sinhalese population. The pent-up enmity exploded as soon as the British abandoned their ‘mission’, leaving both communities in a sort of political vacuum: Who was to govern? Who was to replace the ‘civilisers’ once they decamped without preparing Sinhalese and Tamil for self-rule, as the British had always done in the benignity and magnanimity of their decolonisation? The vacant legacy they left behind was rapidly filled with ethnic rivalry, exposed to Sinhalese vindictiveness and Tamil claims to share power and land in spite of their minority status. Each community claimed their rights as the deprived community at the expense of one another, a situation so similar to the void left behind by the British in Cyprus. The dramatic events that followed became the final act in the history of Britain’s ‘civilising mission’ performance …

In these two cases, the two communities, forsaken victims of the British colonial mindset, instead of achieving ethnic unity, wallowed in the abysmal chasm of oblivion. Islands that could be paradises plunged into the throes of Hell !

To conclude, an island belongs to the vast waters that enshrine it, as its etymology translates: a ‘land’ in ‘water’. Islands do not belong to imperialists or colonialist powers ; they belong to the oceans or seas or lakes that give birth to them, to the nature that stretches its silken carpet over them, to the ethnic groups or communities that gradually settle upon them, intermingling, trading, marrying, creating together a hybrid or Creole culture worthy of any ‘continental’ civilisation. For this very reason, there should not be any dominate power on an island, or official boundaries which sever communities from one another save the natural one that has nurtured and provided for its very existence: the surging billows and silent tides of their eternal creator …

[1]‘Factory’ or ‘workshop’ of production. It is of Latin origin

[2] An allegory written by Alī Ibn Sinā or Avicenna (950-1037) Hayy Iby Yazqān, the Bird Salāmān and Absāl interpreted and adapted by Ibn Tufayl with the same title, born in Muslim Spain in the XIIth century. See Lenn Evan Goodman, Ibn Tufayl’s Hayy Ibn Yaqzān, gee tee bee, Los Angelos, CA, 2003.

[3]The slaughter of all Irish aristocrats, the prohibition of inter-marriage between Anglo-Normand and Irish and the prohibition of the Gaelic written language in 1592 were part of the English ‘civilising mission’ in Ireland.

[4]‘It all amounts to the same thing’ or ‘It’s six of one and half a dozen of the other’.

[5] Lawrence Durrell, Bitter Lemons of Cyprus, 1957.

Paul Mirabile is a retired professor of philology now living in France. He has published mostly academic works centred on philology, history, pedagogy and religion. He has also published stories of his travels throughout Asia, where he spent thirty years.

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

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Stories

The Coin

By Khayma Balakrishnan

“What if you ran away?” Shyam suggested when she heard my story and saw the bruises on my hands. I looked at her between my tears. “Where?” I sniffled. Shyam stared at me blankly. She did not have an answer to that question. I won’t lie. I had thought about running away many times. But I was seventeen and SPM[1] was just a few months away. If I did run away, what would happen to my future? Sometimes I wished that I wasn’t a person who thought so much. Why can’t I be like one of those girls who couldn’t care less? Why couldn’t I take risks? I tucked my hair behind my ears, a nervous habit of mine and looked down at my book, attempting to solve a complicated Additional Mathematics problem. It seemed to be as complicated as my life. I closed my eyes and looked out of the classroom. I wished to be anywhere at all, except home.

After school, I walked home, dreading each step, hoping time would slow down. I walked by the big red mansion, wondering if it really was haunted? As I turned into the junction, I wondered if the aunty and uncle in the corner lot were really abandoned by their sons? Why were all the swings broken in the playground? How many cars were there exactly in the Chinese house? Where did the vegetable seller live? As I came closer to home, my heartbeat quickened. I tucked my hair behind my ears with shaky fingers. Why was the walk home so short?

It was another day of beatings, curses, and a night of sleepless slumber. My mother screamed at me that she wished I had never been born. My aunt slapped me across the face for daring to answer her back. My grandfather spat his tobacco on my face while calling me worthless. As I helped shower my grandmother and changed her clothes, she scratched me, adding on to the existing bruises. After five years, I had gotten used to it. I couldn’t wait to be back at school the next day so I could at least fit in a nap.

As I sat staring at my homework that night, I wondered if things could have been different. What if I had not run away with my mother from my father’s home. He was a drunk who hit us, but back then, my mother loved me. She would hug me and kiss the pain away. I agreed to leave that hell, not knowing my mother would then become the demon. She kept telling me that I ruined her life, that she was stuck in a horrible marriage because of me. Often, I was confused. Was it really my fault? I never asked her to stay. Why was I constantly blamed for her choices?

As I strolled to school the next day, I wondered if Shyam would be willing to listen about what happened the previous day at home. Afterall, it must sound the same to her. But before I could tell her, she came running to my table at the back of the class. “Don’t go to the canteen during recess, come to the Upper Six classroom, Steph has something to show you.” Before I could ask her more, Puan Vijaya entered the class. Shyam walked back to her table. I glanced at her, and she winked at me.

“Selamat Pagi, cikgu,“[2]we droned. History was fun. Normally, I would be interested. Now, I was curious. What could Steph have? Was it a new book? She had many of those naughty romances that were forbidden reads for us. Or was it a new picture she had drawn? She often drew pictures of men and women doing… that thing. I couldn’t focus as Puan Vijaya read about Malayan Union from the history textbook. Steph, Shyam and I met in Form Three. They have been listening to my stories ever since, offering a shoulder, often being angry on my behalf and asking me to run away from my home. But I was too much of a coward to do that.

The next two periods were biology and Bahasa Melayu[3], which crawled with an unbearable slowness. It was as if time was truly testing me. I kept drawing pictures all over my biology notebook as I barely registered what my teacher was saying. Science never interested me, but I took it to be close to Shyam and Steph. Finally, the much-awaited bell that indicated it was break rang. Girls poured out of classrooms and chatter filled the corridors of the whole school. Shyam looked at me meaningfully from the front of the class. My stomach felt like it might drop from the excitement. We walked together towards the stairs in silence.

On the way to the third floor, a patrolling prefect stopped us. “Masa rehat, tak boleh naik atas. Pergi kantin,[4]” she ordered. My shoulders slumped in defeat, but Shyam perked up. “Terlupa barang dalam kelas tambahan semalam. Sekejap je.[5] Please” I wondered what extra classes she meant but kept mum. The prefect looked at us both, and after a moment, let us pass. I was surprised. Shyam pulled my hand, and we climbed up the remaining stairs. Finally, we were outside the Upper Six classroom. It was a long classroom that had almost thirty tables. The classroom was usually empty as the girls in the Upper Six class were often in the library. Their classes were always conducted there.

Steph had closed the windows and pulled the curtains. I was excited. The moment was here. After we stepped in, we made sure to close the door and lock it. Steph took out a board that had numbers and alphabets. It looked like she had made the board herself. “This board will tell us our future,” she whispered. I eyed it sceptically. “How?” I asked out loud. My voice echoed in the silent room, making us jump.

“Shhhh,” she gestured. “Do you have a coin?” Shyam and I reached into our pockets. I produced a 20cents coin. She took it gleefully. “This is called Spirit of the Coin,” and my eye widened. I had heard of the game. Although I had never played it before, I knew many girls in my school played it, convening with the unseen and unheard. My stomach dropped further. “I’m scared,” I whispered. “Don’t you want to know when you can escape? When will she die?”

Her question piqued my interest. I nodded. Indeed, I did want to know. I just didn’t know if I was brave enough. I tucked my hair back and looked down at the board, studying it. It was a small board, had all of the Latin alphabets and numbers, ranging from zero to ten.

“It’s okay. Shyam and I will play first. You watch us. Then if you want, it’ll be your turn, okay,” I nodded again.

“First, the rules. You cannot summon a spirit that is dead for less than 30 days, or else the spirit will follow you home. You can only ask three questions. You cannot ask the spirit to do any favours for you. You must use the phrase — go home — when you want the spirit to leave, understand?” Shyam and I nodded again, as if in a trance.

I blinked and looked at her and asked, “Wait, what if you ask it to do a favour for you?”

Steph looked at me, surprised. Maybe she hadn’t expected me to ask a question. “From what I heard, the spirit will do it, but you will be indebted to the spirit for the rest of your life,” and I nodded.

“Who taught you how to play this? Did it work,” I pressed on further. I could see Steph was losing her patience.

“I watched my cousins play it yesterday. I remember it,” she said, her voice high from the annoyance she must be feeling towards me. I nodded silently. I had more questions but decided to be quiet. I didn’t want to make her too angry.

“I’ll go first, you girls watch,” Steph sat on the ground, with the board in front of her. She placed the coin in the middle and muttered something. We felt a blast of wind, which was weird as all the windows were closed and the air was still.

“It’s here,” Steph whispered.

What was, I wondered? But I tucked my hair behind and decided to stay silent. “Will I pass my SPM?” was her first question. The coin started to move, as if on its own. It was fascinating yet frightening for me. Sweat poured out of my forehead as I watched the coin go to the words Y then E and lastly to S. I saw Steph’s eyes grow big. “When will I get married?” was her next question, and again I watched the coin move to numbers 2, then 0, then to 2 and finally to 5. 2025! Steph didn’t look too happy with the answer though. “Go Home!” Steph said out loud. There was a blast of wind, and the air became still. She looked at Shyam. “Do you want to try?” Shyam nodded.

I looked at the clock in the classroom. We had five more minutes before breaktime was over. When Shyam’s finger touched the coin, we felt another blast of wind. I wonder who she summoned? “Will I pass my SPM?” was also her first question. The coin answered Y-E-S. But before Shyam could ask her second question, we heard a bell ring shrilly. It indicated that break time was over. We had to hurry. “GO HOME” Shyam commanded. We felt a blast of wind and it was quiet again. Steph folded her board. Shyam held the coin, not knowing what to do with it. Steph took it from her and shoved it in my hand. It felt warm, almost hot. I was stunned. I did not want the coin. “Keep it, you might need it,” she winked and opened the classroom door.

“Come, let’s go!” Shyam pulled my hand. I stuffed the coin into my pocket.

During the remaining classes, I kept stroking the coin in my pocket. I wanted to play the game, but what would I ask? About SPM? About my future? Or about my aunt? When would she die? When would the torment end? I had so many questions. But the most important question would be which spirit would I call? Appatchi[6]? Tata[7]? Or papa? As Mrs. Lee ended our class, we thanked her. The final bell rang, and as much as I did not want to, I had to start walking home. I wondered what awaited me at home today.

Once home, I quickly changed into my house clothes, and I kept the coin in the pocket of my shorts. I hoped it would give me strength to get through the day. I went through the routine like a clockwork. I bathed ammama[8], while she screeched and scratched me, blended her food and fed her. All while she spat it back on my face. At one point, I got so angry I wanted to scream at her, but I couldn’t. Because they were watching. And waiting for the opportunity to strike me. After feeding ammama, I did the dishes. She had laid out my food. Rice which was swimming in cold rasam[9]. Looking at it, I lost my appetite. I tucked my hair, made sure nobody was watching and threw the food away. I washed the clothes, took in the dry clothes, and folded them. I was used to doing six people’s laundry on my own. I swept and mopped the house. It was already six in the evening.

She had gone out to the pasar malam[10]. I sought permission from appaiya[11] to shower. He nodded and I ran to the washroom. As I was putting on my clothes after the shower, I heard her car honk. “No, no, no…” I muttered as I quickly pulled a t-shirt over and ran to the front of the house. I did not dry my hair and it was dripping, making my t-shirt wet. She had gotten out of the car and was opening the gate.

“Where were you?” she screamed. The neighbours looked over, and then continued to mind their own business. This was normal to them.

“So..sorry cinamah[12], I was bathing” I answered.

“Why did you take so long to shower? Because of your hair? Do you think you are so pretty that you need to wash your hair? I’ll put an end to this today!” and I knew the worst part of the day was upon me. She dragged me by my hair to the kitchen.

“Kneel!” she commanded. I cried and begged her for mercy. She hit my head with a metal spoon and forced me to kneel. She rummaged the kitchen drawers and took a pair of scissors. She started cutting my hair while I cried. She kept cutting it until the entire floor was filled with hair. My head felt bare and my tears wouldn’t stop. She kicked my back and I fell on the floor. “Sweep up the kitchen. I don’t want to see your hair anywhere,” and she walked away.

Appaiya and amma[13] were watching and had done nothing to stop her. “You deserve it,” I heard amma behind me. I got up and stared at the floor.

My hair was everywhere. I walked towards the broom and swept it all up. I threw it all away and went into the room. I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked terrible. There were patches of hair in some parts while some parts were so bare you could see the skin on my head. My tears refused to stop at the sight. How was I going to go to school? The girls would laugh. The teachers would stare. More tears spilled out. At the same time, anger bubbled in me. I wanted revenge. Maybe it was time for me to actually do something instead of crying. I closed my eyes and touched the coin. It felt warm to my touch.

The night went by without any other incidents. Cinamah had a satisfied look on her face, while amma laughed every time she saw me. I stayed in the kitchen as much as possible, until it was time to feed ammama her dinner and put her to bed. I did the rest of my chores quietly, but a plan was growing in my head. By the time they had all gone to bed, it was eleven thirty at night. I was ready to end this torture as well.

I started working on my homework and waited till the clock struck twelve. Then I tip-toed outside each room and waited till I heard their snores. Once I was satisfied, I walked back to the dining table where my books were and took out a piece of paper. I remembered how Steph’s board had looked. I drew the alphabets and the numbers. I reached into my pocket to take out my coin. It still felt warm on my skin. I was ready. I closed my eyes.

“Can you kill my whole family?” The coin remained rooted on its spot. I felt a blast of wind as I caught the coin move slowly.

[1] Sijil Pelajaran Malaysia (SPM), or the Malaysian Certificate of Education equivalent to a GCSE exam

[2] Selamat Pagi : Good Morning: Cikgu: Teacher

[3] Malay language

[4] Break time, can’t go upstairs. Go to the canteen

[5] I forgot something in an extra class yesterday. Please let me go for a short while.

[6] Grandmother (The mother of one’s dad)

[7] Grandfather (The father of one’s dad)

[8] Ammama: Grandmother (The mother of one’s mom)

[9] A thin and spicy South Indian soup

[10] Night market

[11] Grandfather (The father of one’s mum)

[12] Aunt (Mother’s sister)

[13] Mother

Khayma Balakrishnan enjoys writing stories and poems. Her work in English contains flavours of her native tongue, Tamil, as well as her national language, Bahasa Malaysia. Her works have been published both in print and online from 2017 till 2023.

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

Tags Bahasa Malaysia, Bahasa Melayu, Khayma Balakrishnan, Malaysia, SPM, Tamil

Contents

Borderless June 2023

Editorial

Where have All the People Gone? … Click here to read.

Translations

Hena, a short story by Nazrul, has been translated from Bengali by Sohana Manzoor. Click here to read.

Mohammad Ali’s Signature, a short story by S Ramakrishnan, has been translated from Tamil by Dr B Chandramouli. Click here to read.

Three poems by Masud Khan have been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.

Shadows, a poem in Korean, has been translated by the poet himself, Ihlwha Choi. Click here to read.

Pran or Life by Tagore has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravarty. Click here to read.

Conversations

Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri converses with Vinta Nanda about the Shout, a documentary by Vinta Nanda that documents the position of women in Indian society against the backdrop of the #MeToo movement and centuries of oppression and injustice. Click here to read.

In Conversation with Advait Kottary about his debut historic fiction, Siddhartha: The Boy Who Became the Buddha. Click here to read.

Poetry

Click on the names to read the poems

Michael Burch, Ananya Sarkar, George Freek, Smitha Sehgal, Rachel Jayan, Michael Lee Johnson, Sayantan Sur, Ron Pickett, Saranyan BV, Jason Ryberg, Priya Narayanan, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Evangeline Zarpas, Ramesh Karthik Nayak, Rhys Hughes

Poets, Poetry & Rhys Hughes

In Ghee-Wizz, Rhys Hughes talks of the benefits of Indian sweets while wooing Yetis. Click here to read.

Musings/Slices from Life

Humbled by a Pig

Farouk Gulsara meets a wild pig while out one early morning and muses on the ‘meeting’. Click here to read.

Spring Surprise in the Sierra

Meredith Stephens takes us hiking in Sierra Nevada. Click here to read.

Lemon Pickle without Oil

Raka Banerjee indulges in nostalgia as she tries her hand at her grandmother’s recipe. Click here to read.

Apples & Apricots in Alchi

Shivani Shrivastav bikes down to Alchi Ladakh to find serenity and natural beauty. Click here to read.

Musings of a Copywriter

In Trees from my Childhood, Devraj Singh Kalsi muses on his symbiotic responses to trees that grew in their home. Click here to read.

Notes from Japan

In Superhero Sunday in Osaka, Suzanne Kamata writes of her experience at the Osaka Comic Convention with her daughter. Click here to read.

Stories

The Trial of Veg Biryani

Anagha Narasimha gives us a social satire. Click here to read.

Am I enough?

Sarpreet Kaur explores social issues in an unusual format. Click here to read.

Arthur’s Subterranean Adventure

Paul Mirabile journeys towards the centre of the Earth with his protagonist. Click here to read.

Essays

No Bucket Lists, No Regrets

Keith Lyons muses on choices we make while living. Click here to read.

In Search of the Perfect Dosa

Ravi Shankar trots around the world in quest of the perfect dosa — from South India to Aruba and West Indies. Click here to read.

“Bookshops don’t fail. Bookshops run by lazy booksellers fail.”

Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri takes us for a tour of the Kunzum bookstore in New Delhi. Click here to read.

Book Excerpts

An excerpt from Greening the Earth: A Global Anthology of Poetry, edited by K. Sachitanandan and Nishi Chawla. Click here to read.

An excerpt from Advait Kottary’s Siddhartha: The Boy Who Became the Buddha. Click here to read.

Book Reviews

Somdatta Mandal reviews Behind Latticed Marble: Inner Worlds of Women by Jyotirmoyee Devi Sen, translated from Bengali by Apala G. Egan. Click here to read.

Rakhi Dalal reviews Rhys Hughes’ The Wistful Wanderings of Perceval Pitthelm. Click here to read.

Basudhara Roy reviews Prerna Gill’s Meanwhile. Click here to read.

Bhaskar Parichha reviews Zac O’Yeah’s Digesting India: A Travel Writer’s Sub-Continental Adventures With The Tummy (A Memoir À La Carte). Click here to read.

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

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Tags Advait Kottary, Alchi, Anagha Narasimha, Ananya Sarkar, Apala G. Egan, Aruba, B Chandramouli, Basudhara Roy, Behind Latticed Marble: Inner Worlds of Women, Bengali, Bhaskar Pariccha, Digesting India: A Travel Writer’s Sub-Continental Adventures with the Tummy (A Memoir À La Carte), Evangeline Zarpas, Fakrul Alam, Farouk Gulsara, George Freek, Greening the Earth: A Global Anthology of Poems, Hena, Japan, Jason Ryberg, Jyotirmoyee Devi Sen, K. Satchidanandan, Kunzum Bookstore, Ladakh, Masud Khan, Meanwhile, Meredith Stephens, Michael Burch, Michael Lee Johnson, Mitali Chakravarty, Nazrul, New Delhi, Nishi Chawla, Osaka Comic Convention, Prerna Gill, Priya Narayanan, Rachel Jayan, Raka Banerjee, Rakhi Dalal, Ramesh Karthik Nayak, Ravi Shankar, Rhys Hughes, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, S Ramakrishnan, Saranyan BV, Sarpreet Kaur, Sayantan Sur, Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri, Shivani Shrivastav, Shout, Siddhartha: The Boy Who Became the Buddha, Sierra Nevada, Smitha Sehgal, Sohana Manzoor, Somdatta Mandal, Suzanne Kamata, Tagore, Tamil, The Wistful Wanderings of Perceval Pitthelm, Vinta Nanda, West Indies, Zac O’Yeah

Editorial

Where have All the People Gone?

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date June 14, 2023
No Comments on Where have All the People Gone?

Can humankind ever stop warring and find peace?

Perhaps, most sceptics will say it is against human nature to stop fighting and fanning differences. The first recorded war was fought more than 13,000 years ago in what is now a desert but was green long ago. Nature changed its face. Continents altered over time. And now again, we are faced with strange shifts in climate that could redefine not just the dimensions of the surface area available to humankind but also our very physical existence. Can we absorb these changes as a species when we cannot change our nature to self-destruct for concepts that with a little redefining could move towards a world without wars leading to famines, starvation, destruction of beautiful edifices of nature and those built by humankind? That we could feed all of humans — a theory that won economist Abhijit Banerjee his Nobel Prize in 2019 so coveted by all humanity — almost seems to have taken a backseat. This confuses — as lemmings self-destruct…do humans too? I would have thought that all humanity would have moved towards resolving hunger and facing the climate crises post-2019 and post-pandemic, instead of killing each other for retaining constructs created by powerbrokers.

In the timeless lyrics of ‘Imagine’, John Lennon found peace by suggesting we do away with manmade constructs which breed war, anger and divisions and share the world as one. Wilfred Owen and many writers involved in the World Wars wrote to showcase the desolation and the heartfelt darkness that is brought on by such acts. Nazrul also created a story based on his experience in the First World War, ‘Hena’, translated for us by Sohana Manzoor. Showcasing the downside of another kind of conflict, a struggle to survive, is a story with a distinctive and yet light touch from S Ramakrishnan translated from Tamil by B Chandramouli. And yet in a conflict-ridden world, humans still yearn to survive, as is evident from Tagore’s poem Pran or ‘Life’. Reflecting it is the conditioning that we go through from our birth that makes us act as we do are translations by Professor Fakrul Alam of Masud Khan’s poetry and from Korean by Ihlwha Choi.

A figure who questioned his own conditioning and founded a new path towards survival; propounded living by need, and not greed; renounced violence and founded a creed that has survived more than 2500 years, is the man who rose to be the Buddha. Born as Prince Siddhartha, he redefined the norms with messages of love and peace. Reiterating the story of this legendary human is debutante author, Advait Kottary with his compelling Siddhartha: The Boy Who Became the Buddha, a book that has been featured in our excerpts too. In an interview, Kottary tells us more of what went into the making of the book which perhaps is the best survivor’s guide for humanity — not that we need to all become Buddhas but more that we need to relook at our own beliefs, choices and ways of life.

Another thinker-cum-film maker interviewed in this edition is Vinta Nanda for her film Shout, which highlights and seeks resolutions for another kind of crisis faced by one half of the world population today. She has been interviewed and her documentary reviewed by Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri. Chaudhuri has also given us an essay on a bookshop called Kunzum which continues to expand and go against the belief we have of shrinking hardcopy markets.

The bookshop has set out to redefine norms as have some of the books featured in our reviews this time, such as Rhys Hughes’ latest The Wistful Wanderings of Perceval Pitthelm. The reviewed by Rakhi Dalal contends that the subtitle is especially relevant as it explores what it says — “The Absurdity of Existence and The Futility of Human Desire” to arrive at what a person really needs. Prerna Gill’s Meanwhile reviewed by Basudhara Roy and poetry excerpted from Greening the Earth: A Global Anthology of Poetry, edited by K. Satchidanandan and Nishi Chawla, also make for relooking at the world through different lenses. Somdatta Mandal has written about Behind Latticed Marble: Inner Worlds of Women by Jyotirmoyee Devi Sen, translated by Apala G. Egan and Bhaskar Parichha has taken us on a gastronomic tour with Zac O’Yeah’s Digesting India: A Travel Writer’s Sub-Continental Adventures with the Tummy (A Memoir À La Carte).

Gastronomical adventures seem to be another concurrent theme in this edition. Rhys Hughes has written of the Indian sweets with gulab jamun as the ultimate life saver from Yetis while trekking in the Himalayas! A musing on lemon pickle by Raka Banerjee and Ravi Shankar’s quest for the ultimate dosa around the world — from India, to Malaysia, to Aruba, Nepal and more… tickle our palate and make us wonder at the role of food in our lives as does the story about biryani battles by Anagaha Narasimha.

Talk of war, perhaps, conjures up gastronomic dreams as often scarcity of food and resources, even potable water and electricity is a reality of war or conflict. Michael Burch brings to us poignant poetry about war as Ramesh Karthik Nayak has a poem on a weapon used in wars. Ryan Quinn Flanagan has brought another kind of ongoing conflict to our focus with his poetry centring on the National Day (May 5th) in Canada for Vigils for Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women by hanging red clothes from trees, an issue that perhaps has echoes of Vinta Nanda’s Shout and Suzanne Kamata’s poetry for her friend who went missing decades ago as opposed to Rachel Jayen’s defiant poetry where she asserts her womanhood. Ron Pickett, George Freek and Sayantan Sur have given us introspective perspectives in verse. We have more poetry asking for a relook at societal norms with tongue-in -cheek humour by Jason Ryberg and of course, Rhys Hughes with his heartfelt poem on raiders in deserts.

The piece that really brought a smile to the lips this time was Farouk Gulsara’s ‘Humbled by a Pig’, a humorous recount of man’s struggles with nature after he has disrupted it. Keith Lyons has taken a look at the concept of bucket lists, another strange construct, in a light vein. Devraj Singh Kalsi has given a poignant and empathetic piece about trees with a self-reflective and ironic twist. We have narratives from around the world with Suzanne Kamata taking us to Osaka Comic Convention, Meredith Stephens to Sierra Nevada and Shivani Shrivastav to Ladakh. Paul Mirabile has travelled to the subterranean world with his fiction, in the footsteps perhaps of Jules Verne but not quite.

We are grateful to all our wonderful contributors some of whom have not been mentioned here but their works were selected because they truly enriched our June edition. Do visit our contents page to meet and greet all our wonderful authors. I would like to thank the team at Borderless without whose efforts and encouragement our journal would not exist and Sohana Manzoor especially for her fantastic artwork as well. Thank you all.

Wish you another lovely month of interesting reads!

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

READ THE LATEST UPDATES ON THE FIRST BORDERLESS ANTHOLOGY, MONALISA NO LONGER SMILES, BY CLICKING ON THIS LINK.

Tags Abhijit Banerjee, Advait Kottary, Anagha Narasimha, Apala G. Egan, Aruba, B Chandramouli, Basudhara Roy, Behind Latticed Marble: Inner Worlds of Women, Bhaskar Pariccha, Borderless Journal, Digesting India: A Travel Writer’s Sub-Continental Adventures with the Tummy (A Memoir À La Carte), Fakrul Alam, First World War, George Freek, Greening the Earth: A Global Anthology of Poems, Ihlwha Choi, Imagine, India, John Lennon, Jules Verne, June, Jyotirmoyee Devi Sen, K. Satchidanandan, Korean, Ladakh, Malaysia, Masud Khan, Meanwhile, Meredith Stephens, Michael Burch, Mitali Chakravarty, National Day (May 5th) in Canada for Vigils for Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women, Nazrul, Nepal, Nishi Chawla, Nobel Prize, Osaka Comic Convention, Paul Mirabile, Pran, Prerna Gill, Rachel Jayen, Raka Banerjee, Ramesh Karthik Nayak, Ravi Shankar, Rhys Hughes, Ron Picket, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, S Ramakrishnan, Sayantan Sur, Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri, Shivani Srivastav, Shout, Siddhartha: The Boy Who Became the Buddha, Sierra Nevada, Sohana Manzoor, Somdatta Mandal, Suzanne Kamata, Tagore, Tamil, The Wistful Wanderings of Perceval Pitthelm, Translation, Vinta Nanda, Wilfred Owen, World War, Zac O’Yeah

Stories

Muhammad Ali’s Signature

By S. Ramakrishnan, translated from Tamil by Dr B. Chandramouli

The man was around 30. He had sleepless eyes, unkempt hair, and pale lips. He had on a grey half sleeve shirt and blue pants which did not match. Wearing rubber slippers with frayed edges, he was carrying a cloth bag, which he guarded closely on his lap, as if it contained a rare object. Because persons like him were a common sight at the taluka[1] office, no one paid him any attention. He had the hesitant look of someone about to request a loan. He was sitting in a slanted position leaning on his right leg.

The taluka office assumes a relaxed atmosphere during lunchtime. Losing its stiffness, it becomes more like a public library. Workers smile; you can talk to them easily. Maybe he was waiting for that stretch of time. They had built this new office with three floors on a side street near the end of the overhead bridge. When you think of a taluka office, you get the picture of a dusty neem tree, dirty steps and semi-dark rooms; this building was not like that. But there was a jeep blocking the entrance and abandoned bikes that reminded of the old office.

Most government offices did not have lifts; even if they did, they did not work. This office also had only a big staircase. While climbing the stairs, you could see a big government poster pasted on the opposite wall. The office had big windows, like in wedding halls. One worker who did not like too much light had opened only half of the window near his seat. During lunchtime, there was big traffic of vendors: Bagyathammal who sells hot murukku in a silver bucket; Muthu, who sells sweets and snacks; Kasim, who sells towels and lungis, and Kalaivani, who sells nighties and cotton sarees. The workers at the office were their favourite customers.

They continued to visit, even though the office had moved. Especially, Kesavan who sells the hot coconut sweet ‘boli’, had a free run of this office; he would enter regardless of who was there. He will place two bolis wrapped in newspaper on the Tahsildar’s table.

Bagyathammal could climb the stairs slowly only because she was overweight and also had a corn on her foot. They would know of her arrival just by the noise the silver bucket made on the steps. Many workers would be satiated only after munching on her murukku after lunch. They had a water cooler for cold water, which the old office did not have. Kasim would always fill his green bottle with the cold water. He would relish drinking that cold water with a unique expression of bliss on his face. Except for the boy from the tea stall opposite, and Subbiah from the xerox store, most people who came to the office were there to get certificates for caste, income, residency or land ownership. You could easily identify them by their looks. Being nervous, they would drop and scatter their certificates; some could not even answer the questions. Though all the wooden tables were similar, only the table where the officer received the petitions would appear huge to them. Even the leaders in the pictures hung on the wall were unsmiling.

After lunch, many of the workers would not return to their tables immediately. Some would go downstairs to smoke. Raghavan, who was going downstairs, noticed the man sitting aslant.

“What do you want?” he asked while passing.

When the man hesitantly said, “You see.., I.. well,…”

Raghavan told him, “Go inside and ask.”

Some workers had returned after the lunch break. Jayanthi was keeping her washed tiffin box near the window. The man stood in front of Sabapathy’s table and called out — “Sir…”

Sabapathy was searching for a pin to use as a toothpick. Thinking that the man was selling some snacks, he asked, “What did you bring?”

The man produced an old photograph from his bag and said. “Muhammad Ali’s photo.”

Startled and uncomprehending, Sabapathy asked, “What is that?”

“Muhammad Ali Sir, the world famous boxer. My father is the one standing nearby; see here, it has Muhammad Ali’s signature at the bottom.”

“OK, but why are you showing it to me?” asked Sabapathy, not understanding.

“They took it when Muhammad Ali came to Madras.”

“That is all fine. Are you here to give some petition?”

“I came to sell Muhammad Ali’s signature, Sir,” he said hesitantly.

Sabapathy did not understand what he said.

“Selling a signature?… But what can I do with it?” asked sarcastically.

The man hung his head and said, “It is a very valuable signature, Sir. I have money problems at home; that is why I came to sell.”

Sabapathy smiled sarcastically, as if he has found the right person to pass the time with and said, “I know nothing about boxing. See Sekhar in the corner seat? Show it to him.”

Sekhar was the one who can get a loan for anybody in the office. Nobody knew where he got the money from. But he would get a commission of Rs50 for every Rs1000.He had loaned many of his colleagues money during contingencies. He would strictly collect his share on payday.

The man went to Sekhar and showed him the old photograph.

Sekhar looked up at it and asked thoughtfully, “Do you want a death certificate?”

“No, Sir; this is Muhammad Ali.”

“Muhammad Ali means?” Sekhar asked, confused.

“Famous boxing champion; he came to Madras in 1980. He boxed with Jimmy Ellis in front of MGR. My dad was a big boxer in those days; he lost one eye in boxing, but could still fight very well. Muhammad Ali himself had congratulated him. They took this photo when Muhammad Ali was staying in Connemara hotel. There was a huge crowd to see him. My dad was waiting to get his signature on this photo. Muhammad Ali himself took him to his room and signed it for him. My father was thrilled.” he was narrating it like a story.

“Just tell me what you want now,” said Sekhar.

“Please buy this signature. All I want is Rs 500.”

Sekhar did not expect this.

“What am I going to do with this — clean my tongue?” Sekhar asked angrily.

“Do not say that Sir. Muhammad Ali’s signature has value.”

“Let us see how many people in this office know who Muhammad Ali is.” As if taking up a great challenge, Sekhar grabbed the photo from the man and gathered all the office staff in front of him.

Sekhar said in a mocking tone,

“If anyone can correctly identify the man in this photo, I will give the person Rs100.”

One lady asked, “An actor?”

“There is a tailor in my street who looks just like him; his ears are exactly like his,” said Jayanthi.

“Isn’t he the football champion?” asked Mani.

Rangachari was the one who correctly said.

“That is Muhammad Ali, World heavyweight boxing champion. He was born Cassius Clay; he later changed his name to Muhammad Ali.”

“Correct Sir; and it is his signature. At least you can buy this.”

“I do not even have enough time to box with my wife; what am I going to do this? If it was a foreign stamp, at least I could give it to my daughter,” said Rangachari in a mocking voice.

“Do not say that, Sir. I can cut off my father’s picture. Please give me Rs 500,” the man pleaded.

“Five hundred rupees is too much for a signature,” said Rangachari.

“You people demand like that too,” he thought. But he swallowed the thought and said, “If my dad were alive, he would not sell this.”

“It is alright if you want to sell, but where did you come to the taluka office?” asked Rangachari mockingly.

“You are all educated people. I thought you would know the value of this.”

“Forget the signature; you see, even if Muhammad Ali himself comes here, there is no value.” Rangachari laughed automatically, as if he has cracked a joke.

Meanwhile, hearing some footsteps on the stair, peon Munusamy announced that the Tahsildar[2] has arrived.

The safari suit clad Tahsildar Rathinasamy must have noticed the man as he went to his room. He rang the bell as soon as he sat down.

Peon Munusamy hurried into the room.

“Who is that guy standing outside? Is he selling perfume? I told you not to let people like that.”

Munusamy said, “He is not selling perfume, Sir; he came to sell some photo.”

“Ask him to come in,” the Tahsildar said angrily.

The peon told the man who was standing helplessly that the Tahsildar wanted to see him.

The man entered the room slowly.

The Tahsildar asked him with a stern face, “What is this, a marketplace where anyone can walk in and sell stuff? Who are you and why did you come here?”

The man was scared at his anger and hesitantly said, “Muhammad Ali’s signature…photo”

“Ask S1 to come in,” said the Tahsildar angrily.

Sabapathy came.

“Is this a government office or an exhibition? How did you let this man in?”

“We thought he came to give some petition. But he is spinning a yarn about a photograph.”

The Tahsildar said loudly “We should not leave it like this; you call the police. If we grab someone like this, the next one will be afraid to come.”

The man said with a troubled face, “Sorry, sir. I will leave,” he turned to walk out.

“What do you have in your hand? Show it to me.” the Tahsildar asked with the same anger.

The man showed him the photo with Muhammad Ali and his father.

“Did you come to get a donation?”

“No Sir; I came to sell Muhammad Ali’s signature,” he said in a weak voice.

“Don’t you have some other place for that?” the Tahsildar threw the photograph on the table carelessly.

“It is alright sir; just give me the photo; I will leave”

By this time, Rangachari had entered the room and described about Muhammad Ali in fluent English; the Tahsildar listened, only half understanding.

“Who will buy this?”

“There are collectors for this. You can get for 5000, or 10,000 rupees for that.”

“Is that right?”

“Severe money problems at home; that is why I came to sell.” the man repeated.

“What am I going to do if I buy this? I do not even have a place to hang my picture at my home.” the Tahsildar expressed his sense of humour with that statement.

At his juncture, Sekhar came to the office and said, “It is a new type of fraud, Sir. They print a picture off the internet and try to sell it.”

“No Sir. This is my father.”

“Do you have any certificate to prove it?” asked Sekhar.

“Why should I deceive you, Sir,” the man asked pitifully.

“Sekhar is correct. Nowadays, it is difficult to trust anyone; we should be cautious,” said Rangachari.

“Get rid of him and post a notice saying no outside persons are allowed here.” said Tahsildar.

The man took the photograph from the table and placed it in his bag, and walked downstairs.

An old man waiting to submit some petition asked him if the Tahsildar has arrived. He answered yes and left.

It was after three. He felt like fainting because of extreme hunger. The street was hot in the scorching sun. There was no breeze. He walked towards the bus stand to catch a bus to his suburban home.

Suddenly the bag in his hand felt heavy. It sounded as though someone was laughing.

Was that Muhammad Ali laughing?

It was as if his arm was being dragged down by the heavy bag.

He took out the photo and looked at it. His father’s face standing near Muhammad Ali had a unique smile.

He was wondering what he is going to do by taking the photo back to his home.

There was a tar drum standing under the tamarind tree; it was leaking tar. He took out the photo and stuck it on the tar. Muhammad Ali was looking at the street baking in the scorching sun from the photograph stuck to the tar tin.

As if to express his anger, he shrugged off his slippers and started walking barefoot at a fast pace.

The road stretched like the tongue of a strange beast.

[1] regional

[2] Collector

S. Ramakrishnan is an eminent Tamil writer who has won the Sahitya Akademi Award in the Tamil Language category in 2018. He has published 10 novels, 20 collections of short stories, 75 collections of essays, 15 books for children, 3 books of translation and 9 plays. He also has a collection of interviews to his credit. His short stories are noted for their modern story-telling style in Tamil and have been translated and published in English, Malayalam, Hindi, Bengali, Telugu, Kannada and French.

Dr.Chandramouli is a retired physician.. He is fluent in English and Tamil. He has done several English to Tamil, and Tamil to English. He has published some of them.

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

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Tags B Chandramouli, Mohhamad Ali, S Ramakrishnan, Tamil, Translation

Poetry

Dusky Beauty

By Khayma Balakrishnan

She’s a dusky beauty
Head full of hair, curly
Wild and carefree,
Living her life simply
Keeping her heart happy

She drives her family crazy
They say she is unruly
She is expected to be ready
A man of their choice, she must marry

She asks, what’s the hurry?
They mumble something about biology
She argues there is no chemistry
They tell her not to worry
That’ll be sorted with a baby

They want her to cook curry 
But they forget, although sweet, she is spicy
She walks away, head held high with dignity
Away from those who don’t understand her, the society

Khayma Balakrishnan is from Malaysia. Her work, albeit in English, contains flavours of her native tongue, Tamil, as well as her national language, Bahasa Melayu. She enjoys writing poetry. When she isn’t writing, she is either teaching, reading, or sipping on chai. Her works have been published both in print and online.

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

Tags Bahasa Melayu, Khayma Balakrishnan, Malaysia, Tamil

Stories

The Book Hunter

By Paul Mirabile

Adamov led an introverted life. Perhaps because everyone, both friends and foes, thought he was ugly. In fact, he himself, when looking in the mirror that hung lopsided on his peeling wallpaper drew the same conclusion. An ugliness that drove him deeper into his own world, and which would lead him to become the foremost collector of books in the Kalmak region of the Caucasian mountains, and even beyond … This intense activity, which began at a very early age until his violent, and I may add, mysterious death in a dingy New York City hotel room, took him to the four corners of the earth, buying, bartering, stealing manuscripts, first published books, political pamphlets, rare essays. He even possessed, heaven knows how, an incunabulum[1]: a Lutheran Bible! Adamov also acquired, as a picturesque pastime, miniatures of Mughal, Kangra and Rajput stamps, Tibetan thankas, Buddhist prayer masks, mediaeval Chinese scroll paintings. It was said that he amassed more than 25,000 books at the humble two-storey lodging of his home village in the mountains of Daghestan ! But this, I will not confirm …

In short, books became his very existence, his raison d’être. His trusty companions and faithful, consoling friends in his many moments of maniac depression. His book-hunting transformed Amadov into a detective, snooping out the scent of an affair, flaring the odour of yellowing pages, crispy to the touch, invigorating to the smell, pleasing to the eye.

For Adamov, it was not just a question of tracking down a book like a hunter hunting his prey, but of locating the author’s place of residence, his or her favourite haunts. He would spend weeks, months in cities and towns, even after having procured his book, following the daily footfalls of those illustrious or obscure writers. If the writer happened to be alive, he would trail him or her from his or her home to a restaurant, a hotel, a library or book-shop, but never like a sleuth. If caught red-handed, this might have caused him some embarrassment. Adamov was afraid of direct confrontation, especially if it involved the law. To tell the truth, Adamov had no real intention of meeting an author, however famous. He reckoned that authors never measure up to their books, so why waste time actually meeting them? What would they talk about anyway: the birds and the bees? The weather?

It was during those moments of utter dolefulness on the road that Adamov recalled his childhood with a faint smile: He recollected rummaging through the dilapidated homes of his village in search of maps, pamphlets, books, picture cards or any scribblings that caught his eye, classing them in files either by theme or by date of their finding. For example, in 1960 he found 345 miscellaneous documents; in 1961, only 127. He had such a wonderful childhood, in spite of the periodic bombings from above, parental scoldings or beatings, visits from the neighbouring village militia that demanded money, food or young blood for the ’cause’ … A ’cause’ which he never adhered to, nor was ever recruited for, given his frail body and nervous disposition …

Finally he left his home village in search of bigger game, although he promised his parents that he would always keep in contact with them by his book trade; that is, every book purchased, after having read it, would be sent to their two-storey home … A home which became legally his after their deaths in the 1970s …

In 1974 we find our book-hunter in Amsterdam, lodged at the Van Acker Hotel, Jan Willem Brouuersstaat 14, just opposite the Concertgebouw, the famous concert hall, where he had been listening to Beethovan’s symphonies during that delightful month of May. It was in that hotel, in his room, that he arranged an appointment with a Dutch book dealer, a pasty-faced, unscrupulous dwarf, who negotiated hard for his wares. He clutched in his chubby, wrinkled arms an XVIIIth century first edition of Dom Bedos’ L’Art du Facteur d’Orgue[2], that Adamov had been tracking down for years. And finally, there it lay in the hands of that despicable dwarf who wanted more than 7,000 guilders for it! Adamov knew this was an illegal purchase, being classed as patrimonial property, probably having been stolen from the National Library by this slimy sod, but he had to possess it ! They haggled over the price for hours and hours well into the night. Following a rather violent squabble, the dwarf suddenly clutched at his chest, gurgled a few irrelevant syllables, and fell stone dead at Adamov’s shoeless feet. He wretched the priceless treasure from the still clutching arms of the dwarf, slipped on his shoes, checked the street from his window, then the corridor from the door, noiselessly. Adamov quickly packed his meagre belongings (he always travelled light), locked the door behind him and silently crept out into the soothing blackness of the street. In his flight, he threw the hotel door key in a rubbish bin, then made a bee-line for the bus station, where at six o’clock in the morning he was already headed for Berlin, and without wasting a moment, on a train for Istanbul where he was expected by an Armenian seller (or reseller ?) who possessed several Armenian illuminated manuscripts of mediaeval stamp, costly indeed, but since he paid nothing for Dom Bedos’ invaluable treasure, after an hour or two of desperate haggling, bought two manuscripts. The Armenian threw in two or three miniatures from Herat and Tabriz in the hope that his client would return for the other four illuminated manuscripts … Adamov never did: He was murdered sixteen years later …

Now the incident in Amsterdam caused our book-hunter much discomfiture; not any pangs of conscience mind you; Adamov felt no grief over the sudden death of that dwarf. He feared rather police enquiries about the death, and the overt fact that he fled from his hotel without assistance to him, and without paying the bill to boot! The police might accuse him of the dwarf’s death … As to the manuscript, that posed no particular problem since the dwarf had undoubtedly had it stolen or had stolen it himself. Wherever he went now, the hunter would have to look over his shoulder, staying at the grottiest hotels imaginable to avoid the police or their hired henchmen, travelling on night-buses or trains or on cargo ships when crossing oceans or seas.

The Amsterdam incident happened three years ago. Since, Adamov had eluded local police and Interpol not by any Arsène Lupin[3] tactics or strategies, but perhaps by some lucky star or a guardian angel, if the readers are inclined to believe in these wardens of the wanton. But still our book-hunter remained on the qui-vive[4]! Since that unfortunate (or fortunate?) incident, Adamov had been seen in Georgia, Armenia, Iran and Uzbekestan, where he spent over a year, illegally (his visa having expired after three months!), in Bukhara haggling over a XIVth century publication of Hoca Ahmet Yesevi’s Hikmets (Strophes of Wisdom)in the original Chagatai language, a language that he learned to read in three months.

How he slipped out of Uzbekistan is anyone’s guess. He probably bribed the custom officials. In any case, we find traces of him in the Yunnan, at Lijiang, southern China, bargaining hard for three colourful Naxi pictographic manuscripts from a Dongba priest, manuscripts which the Chinese government absolutely forbade to be taken out of the country, but whose exorbitant estimated price on the black market, a cheery sum of 25,000 yuan, persuaded the wily priests to take the risk. Besides, the priest could always imitate the three XVIth century manuscripts : it was all a question of time and patience … And he had both! Who would ever know? Adamov sensed the abysmal greed of his vender, and promised him 10,000 yuan more if he would relinquish two more of the forbidden scriptures, but payable in two days since he would have to wire back to Daghestan for the money. The plucky priest, all agog, smiling a wicked smile, handed the two booklets over to him without hesitation. Adamov never returned. He disappeared, travelling quickly through Nepal to the Himalayas via Sikkim, Ladakh and Zanskar, where, at last, at the Phuktal monastery he sojourned for five months, reading a first edition of James Hilton’s Lost Horizons whilst ploughing through the Hungarian philologist and Tibetologist, Alexander Csoma’s Tibetan-English Dictionary. Before he bid farewell to his kind and generous hosts, he had filched six illuminated prayer books in Tibetan, two festival masks and a thangka[5]. By the time the good monks noticed the theft, the incorrigible thief had trekked to Kaylong, bussed it to Manali, finally arriving in Karachi, where he boarded a cargo ship for Japan, then on to Oakland, California.

Aboard the cargo the thief had time to mediate upon his book-hunting existence. He admitted it wasn’t particularly glamorous — abandoned parents, a dead dwarf, stolen patrimonial property, false passports and bribery of officials. Nevertheless, these unsavoury moments of his hunting never dampened his enthusiasm. His lust for sweet-smelling tomes, his craving to possess, at any cost, more and more of them. To tell the truth, Adamov had become completely obsessed by his collection. Oddly enough, the more he accumulated the uglier he became ! In fact, he not only became uglier, he became fatter … Adamov had no qualms about this ponderous load; indeed, it enveloped him with a sort of pompous aura, whose fleshy freight he swaggered about the decks of the ship like some august, stately sultan. It added to the mystery of his past, present … and future. A future that had little cheer and much disquiet. He was running out of money, for he refused to sell what he bought. Even the many stolen books he dreaded to forswear. How many times had he asked himself why he hoarded such a vast treasure without really capitalising on his assets, without developing a trading-network throughout Asia, without, at least, rereading his precious volumes two or three times, sniffing their illuminated contents, inhaling the strange forms of their letters and signs, touching ever so lightly, again and again, the brittle paper of their pages or the calfskin vellum of their covers … To these questions he had no clear answer. He felt trapped in a conundrum, out of whose meshes Adamov, the hunter, gradually fancied himself the hunted!

But by who? The few passengers aboard hardly looked at him, much less spoke to him. He ate his meals with two or three burly fellows, perhaps Koreans, who beyond a good morning, afternoon or night, never pronounced a word to him, nor amongst themselves for that matter.

So he churned these thoughts over and over in his head as the days went by on the never-ending Pacific Ocean. What he needed was a project. Yes, a project that would offer him a meaning to his collecting … to his cherished collection. He resolved to go to New York City once disembarking at Oakland. Why New York City? Because Adamov had read about a Jewish New Yorker, named Louis Wolfson, who spoke many languages and wrote in French because he hated his mother speaking English to him. An odd chap indeed, but this is what he read. The idea fascinated him. The fact that Wolfson was still alive, in spite of the many sojourns in psychiatric wards and clinics. It was his book : Le Schizo et la Langue[6] that he would find and read. This posed no real problem, having been edited and re-edited since 1970. Yes, this book would put him on the trail of something enormous … Something worthwhile. Adamov looking out to sea gazed complacently into his future. A piercing crimson glow hollowed out a widening hole amidst the thick, grey clouds … He spun on his heels. The hunter sensed a pair of eyes bearing down on him. Yet, when he searched out the deck and the bridge high above him there was not a soul in sight. He sighed, padded his paunch, and casually shuffled off to his cabin as the swells lifted the ship high into the crests of the grey sky, only to drop with tremendous speed into the black, oceanic valleys below …

Six months later, Adamov had reached New York City on a greyhound bus from Atlanta, Georgia. He took up his lodgings at a sleezy hotel on the Lower East Side, Water Street, number 9. It wasn’t long before Adamov, weaving in and out of the 8 million New Yorkers day after day, night after night, had purchased a cheap 1970 edition of the aforesaid book by Louis Wolfson, with a preface by Gilles Deleuze, a French philosopher of some renown in Europe. He pored over this odd book as if he himself had written it. His fascination over such a contemporary edition unnerved him. This Wolfson grew on him like a drug-addiction — not for his writing, which indeed proved rather drab, but to the singularity of his method to achieve a written work through strenuous exercises of self-neglect and utter detachment from maternal infringement. The schizophrenic maniac had managed to create his own sphere of reality through the myriad experiences of listening to such diverse languages as Yiddish, French, Russian and German on his make-shift Walkman whilst strutting through the streets, sitting in parks, at the table when eating with his obnoxious mother, ensconced in the public library as he read or wrote in all the languages he knew … except English, that accursed language that his mother tortured him with like a sadist would when ripping out fingernails! That language which he hated as much as he hated his mother …

Adamov bought a Walkman and had recorded Persian, Arabic and Mongolian on it, which he listened to as he strolled about the same streets that Wolfson had strolled. Or, he sat in the same New York Public Library where Wolfson had sat for hours and hours until closing time. He couldn’t give a biscuit where Wolfson was now living, probably locked up in some clinic for the alienated in a straitjacket. He had nothing personal against English. However, these dippings into ‘alien tongues’ hour after hour, day after day, lifted him out of the ‘New World’ into one of his own making … his own created polyphonic world. His excitement grew as he shifted from Wolfson’s book to the many languages that he repeated over and over again …

It was more or less at this time that I penetrated Adamov’s world. I, too, had my grotty lodgings at the same hotel, a room right next to his. At night I heard his wild, inflamed exclamations about things I hardly deciphered. However, one day we met in the low-lit, begrimed corridor as he dawdled to his room. He had shaved his head and let grow a beard down to his chest. He wore a skullcap of pure white. Adamov’s black, beady eyed bore into mine with some suspicion at first, but my soft spoken, causal demeanour put him immediately at ease. I introduced myself, and he invited me into his room for an evening chat …

It was the first and last discussion I had with this odd fellow, and it lasted well into the night. The oddness lay not so much in the subjects that we touched upon, but the dream-like atmosphere that Adamov somehow created. There he sat enthroned behind his reading and writing table near the unclean window like Genghis Khan himself, stroking his beard, turning the pages of Wolfson’s book that lay before him, his pudgy fingers smearing coffee grinds on page 40, heavily marked with pencilled notes ! He would address me in English, then after several minutes switch to Spanish and Italian with the utmost ease, an ease that I echoed since I was well versed in those languages. My host appeared to be pleased by this hollow echo in the night. After a drink or two of some cheap red wine, Adamov would burst into a soliloquy in Turkish, afterwards slipping into Russian, German, Dutch and French, attempting to throw me off the chase, to deviate my beating. And in this, I must confess, he thoroughly succeeded. Oftentimes the sly polyglot began a sentence in Russian and finished it in Chinese or Tamil, a feature that linguists call ‘code-switching’. I was flabbergasted …

But what really stupefied me was this strange man’s ability to alter his speech patterns and accents. Now he would impersonate, linguistically, an American from the deep South, now one from New York City. Now a Frenchman from Paris, now from Marseilles! When he fell into speaking Spanish, he conversed ever so casually with a Mexican ‘gaucho’[7] accent, only to follow up with a ‘caballero’[8] one from Barcelona or Madrid … All these inflections and modulations left me swooning, to say the least. At length, at four in the morning, I rose and retired to my room, having learnt absolutely nothing of importance about this amazing creature. In short, I felt more ignorant of this man than before I ever laid eyes on him …

Everyday Adamov spent over ten hours at the public library. It was there that his great project suddenly took form, looming larger and larger in his excited mind. Why not write stories myself ? Why not write stories in many languages and not just read or listen to them ? Yes, different stories written in different languages, signed by invented names! Twelve stories – fiction, each bearing a style of its own, a flavour and texture of its own, yet signed by twelve different writers. Adamov grew more and more agitated, fidgeting in his chair much to the annoyance of two elderly readers opposite him, poring over a William F. Buckley essay and Eric Lux’s 1991 edition: Woody Allen: A Biography.

But what languages could he choose? French, Spanish, English, Turkish, Italian and German … Any. How about Russian and Chinese? That would make eight. “I can get on all right with Tamil and Persian … and Armenian?” Adamov paused, collecting his thoughts. What would be the twelfth language ? His own ? Never. It was his mother’s tongue, and besides who would ever read it? But was being read all that important, vital to his existence? No. This project was beyond a reading public … beyond mankind’s expectations of what writing and literature meant to him.

By this time, Adamov’s eyes seemed to pop out of their sockets. The two elderly readers rose from their chairs and left with many a smirk and sneer. What did he care? Still, he needed one last language: “I got it, I’ll invent a language from all the languages I know! That will be my twelfth story; a story to end all stories …”

He mapped out his plan of action mentally. Our future short-story writer shot out of his chair and made a bee-line for his hotel. He would put his plan into action that very night … He set to work at his reading and writing table, having decided to begin the Twelve with English, the language that Wolfson loathed! He cringed under that delicious stroke of inspiration. Let the bugger loathe all he might! Adamov could love his book, but he harboured no devotion towards its writer. Besides, he was residing in an English-speaking country and there he wanted to write in English. He would write French in France or Belgium, Spanish in Spain or in Latin America, Turkish in Turkey, and so on.

Hours went by as Adamov pressed on and on, burning oil of the midnight lamps, filling sheets of cheap notebook paper as quickly as his imagination spiralled out. Coffee after coffee kept pace with his hand, à la Balzac, amidst the screaming police sirens, the bickering of pimps and their whores below his window, rubbish bin cans crashing on pavements as stray cats or vagrants rummaged through their contents. Through the thin walls of his room he heard coughing, sneezing, cursing, snoring and sleep-talking.

As the sun broke through the thick, colourless skies of a New York City morning, Adamov, thoroughly exhausted, threw down his mighty writing tool. He had finished the first of the Twelve: The Garden of Enchantment, signed Hilarius Eremita …

Just at that triumphant moment a sudden hammering at his door rocked him out of his reverie. He rose sluggishly and shuffled to the unlocked door. As he grasped the knob the door burst open in one forceful thrust. Two hooded men seized Adamov by the throat, pinned him against the wall and strangled him with their bare hands. The ponderous writer slid limply to the floor, mouth ajar, eyes open in tragic astoundment. The hooded men fled, vanishing into thin air, as the expression goes …

Hearing hurried footsteps, I waited until they had died down, then tip-toed to his room. For some unknown reason his premeditated murder, for premeditated murder it undeniably was, did not surprise nor move me. I swiftly, however, rushed to the writing table : Nothing had been touched ! I gathered all his papers then returned briskly to my room …

And this was how I was able to salvage from the malevolent hands of Adamov, or Hilarius Eremita, the story called, The Garden of Enchantment …

When I think back on this whole affair there is no shadow of a doubt that the hunter had become the hunted for reasons that we shall never really know. In light of that, I departed from New York City the day after the murder on a flight to Buenos Aires, then on to Madrid …

[1] A book printed on a Gutenburg Press before 1500.

[2] The Art of an Organ Builder.

[3] Famous French ‘gentleman’ robber who steals from the rich to give to the poor, and in doing so, always outsmarts the police, but without ever shedding any blood. Arsène’s adventures were written by Maurice Leblanc (1864-1941).

[4] On the alert (French)

[5] Tibetan painting

[6] The Schizophrenic and Language.

[7] A cowboy from the Mexican plains or pampas.

[8] ‘Gentleman’.

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

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Tags Arabic, Atlanta, Belgium, Chagtai, Chinese, France, Georgia, Gutenberg Press, James Hilton, Ladakh, Latin America, Lost Horizons, Madrid, Marseilles, Naxi, New York City, Paris, Paul Mirabile, Persian, Sikkim, Spain, Tamil, Turkey, Uzbekistan, Woody Allen, Zanskar

Contents

Borderless, January 2023

Editorial

Will Monalisa Smile Again? … Click here to read.

Translations

Nazrul’s Ring Bells of Victory has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.

Nobody in the Sky by S Ramarishnan, has translated from Tamil by R Sathish. Click here to read.

The Bike Thief by Ihlwha Choi has been translated from Korean by the poet himself. Click here to read.

Tagore’s Banshi or Flute has been translated by Mitali Chakravarty from Bengali.Click here to read.

Poetry

Click on the names to read

Jared Carter, Ranu Uniyal, Rhys Hughes, Saranyan BV, Scott Thomas Outlar, Priyanka Panwar, Ron Pickett, Ananya Sarkar, K.S. Subramaniam, George Freek, Snigdha Agrawal, Jenny Middleton, Asad Latif, Michael R Burch

Poets, Poetry & Rhys Hughes

In I Went to Kerala, Rhys Hughes treads a humorous path. Click here to read.

Conversation

In Conversation with Abhay K, a poet turned diplomat, translator and a polyglot, converses of how beauty inspired him to turn poet and translating Kalidasa and other poets taught him technique. Click here to read.

Musings/Slices from Life

What do Freddy Mercury, Rishi Sunak & Mississipi Masala have in Common?

Farouk Gulsara muses on the human race. Click here to read.

Ghosh & Company

Ratnottama Sengupta relives the past. Click here to read.

Sails, Whales, and Whimsical Winds

Meredith Stephens continues on her sailing adventures in New South Wales and spots some sporting whales. Click here to read.

Tsunami 2004: After 18 years

Sarpreet Kaur travels back to take a relook at the tsunami in 2004 from Andaman and Nicobar Islands. Click here to read.

‘I am in a New York state of mind’

Ravi Shankar shares his travel adventures in the city. Click here to read.

Half a World Away from Home

Mike Smith introspects on his travels to New Zealand. Click here to read.

Musings of a Copywriter

In Back to the Past, Devraj Singh Kalsi muses on the need to relive nostalgia. Click here to read.

Notes from Japan

In The Year of the Tiger Papa, Suzanne Kamata gives us a glimpse of Japan’s education system with a touch of humour. Click here to read.

Essays

A Solitary Pursuit: The Art of Suhas Roy

Ratnottama Sengupta journeys with the signature art of Suhas Roy as it transformed in theme, style, and medium. Click here to read.

New Perspectives on Cinema & Mental Health

Between 1990 and 2017 one in seven people in India suffered from mental illness. However, the depiction of this in cinema has been poor and sensationalist contends Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri. Click here to read.

The Observant Immigrant

In The Immigrant’s Dilemma, Candice Louisa Daquin explores immigrants and the great American Dream. Click here to read.

Stories

The Book Truck

Salini Vineeth writes a story set in the future. Click here to read.

The Scholar

Chaturvedi Divi explores academia. Click here to read.

Little Billy

Paul Mirabile renders the poignant tale of a little boy. Click here to read.

Book Excerpts

An excerpt from Sanjay Kumar’s Performing, Teaching and Writing Theatre: Exploring Play. Click here to read.

An excerpt from Abhay K’s Monsoon: A Poem of Love & Longing. Click here to read.

Book Reviews

Somdatta Mandal reviews Priya Hajela’s Ladies Tailor: A novel. Click here to read.

Rakhi Dalal reviews Shrinivas Vaidya’s A Handful of Sesame, translated from Kannada by Maithreyi Karnoor. Click here to read.

Gracy Samjetsabam reviews K.A. Abbas’s Sone Chandi Ke Buth: Writings on Cinema, translated and edited by Syeda Hameed and Sukhpreet Kahlon. Click here to read.

Bhaskar Parichha reviews MA Sreenivasan’s Of the Raj, Maharajas and Me. Click here to read.

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

Tags A Handful of Sesame, Abhay K, Ananya Sarkar, Andaman And Nicobar Island, Asad Latif, Bengali, Bhaskar Parichha, Devraj Singh Kalsi, Fakrul Alam, Gracy Samjetsabam, Ihlwha Choi, Jared Carter, Jenny Middleton, K A Abbas, K.S.Subramaniam, Korean, Ladies Tailor: A Novel, MA Sreenivasan, Maithreyi Karnoor, Michael R Burch, Mike Smith, Monsoon: A Poem of Love and Longing, Nazrul, New Zealand, Paul Mirabile, Performing Teaching and Writing Theatre: Exploring Play, Priya Hajela, Priyanka Panwar, R Satish, Rakhi Dalal, Ranu Uniyal, Ratnottama Sengupta, Rhys Hughes, Ron Pickett, S Ramakrishnan, Salini Vineeth, Sanjay Kumar, Saranyan BV, Sarpreet Kaur, Scott Thomas Outlar, Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri, Shrinivas Vaidya, Snigdha Agrawal, Somdatta Mandal, Sone Chandi Ke Buth: Writings on Cinema, Suhas Roy, Sukhpreet Kahlon, Suzanne Kamata, Syeda Hameed, Tamil

Editorial

Will Monalisa Smile Again?

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date January 20, 2023
No Comments on Will Monalisa Smile Again?

The first month of 2023 has been one of the most exciting! Our first book, Monalisa No Longer Smiles: An Anthology of Writings from across the World, is now in multiple bookstores in India (including Midlands and Om Bookstores). It has also had multiple launches in Delhi and been part of a festival.

Delhi University panellists from left to right: Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri, Meenakshi Malhotra, Debraj Mookerjee

We, Meenakshi Malhotra and I, were privileged to be together at the physical book events. We met the editor in chief of Om Books International, Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri, the editor of our anthology, Jyotsna Mehta, along with two translators and writers I most admire, Aruna Chakravarti and Radha Chakravarty, who also graced a panel discussion on the anthology during our physical book launch. The earlier e-book launch had been in November 2022. My heartfelt thanks to the two eminent translators and Chaudhuri for being part of the discussions at both these launches. Chaudhuri was also in the panel along with Debraj Mookerjee at a launch organised by Malhotra and the English Literary Society steered by Nabaneeta Choudhury at Hans Raj College, Delhi University. An energising, interactive session with students and faculty where we discussed traditional and online publishing, we are immensely grateful to Malhotra for actively organising the event and to the Pandies’ founder, Sanjay Kumar, for joining us for the discussion. It was wonderful to interact with young minds. On the same day, an online discussion on the poetry in Monalisa No Longer Smiles was released by the Pragati Vichar Literary Festival (PVLF) in Delhi.

At the PVLF session, I met an interesting contemporary diplomat cum poet, Abhay K. He has translated Kalidasa’s Meghaduta and the Ritusamhara from Sanskrit and then written a long poem based on these, called Monsoon. We are hosting a conversation with him and are carrying book excerpts from Monsoon, a poem that is part of the curriculum in Harvard. The other book excerpt is from Sanjay Kumar’s Performing, Teaching and Writing Theatre: Exploring Play, a book that has just been published by the Cambridge University Press.

Perhaps because it is nearing the Republic Day of India, we seem to have a flurry of book reviews that reflect the Sub-continental struggle for Independence from the colonials. Somdatta Mandal has reviewed Priya Hajela’s Ladies Tailor: A novel, a book that takes us back to the trauma of the Partition that killed nearly 200,000 to 2 million people – the counts are uncertain. Bhaskar Parichha has discussed MA Sreenivasan’s Of the Raj, Maharajas and Me, a biography of a long serving official in the Raj era — two different perspectives of the same period. Rakhi Dalal has shared her views on Shrinivas Vaidya’s A Handful of Sesame, translated from Kannada by Maithreyi Karnoor, a book that dwells on an immigrant to the Southern part of India in the same time period. The legendary film writer K.A. Abbas’s Sone Chandi Ke Buth: Writings on Cinema, translated and edited by Syeda Hameed and Sukhpreet Kahlon, has been praised by Gracy Samjetsabam.

We have a piece on mental health in cinema by Chaudhuri, an excellent essay written after interviewing specialists in the field. Ratnottama Sengupta has given us a vibrant piece on Suhas Roy, an artist who overrides the bounds of East and West to create art that touches the heart. Candice Louisa Daquin has written on border controls and migrants in America. High profile immigrants have also been the subject of Farouk Gulsara’s ‘What do Freddy Mercury, Rishi Sunak & Mississipi Masala have in Common?’ Sengupta also writes of her immigrant family, including her father, eminent writer, Nabendu Ghosh, who moved from Bengal during the Partition. There are a number of travel pieces across the world by Ravi Shankar, Meredith Stephens and Mike Smith — each written in distinctively different styles and exploring different areas on our beautiful Earth. Sarpreet Kaur has revisited the devastation of the 2004 tsunami and wonders if it is a backlash from nature. Could it be really that?

Suzanne Kamata gives us a glimpse of the education system in Japan in her column with a humorous overtone. Devraj Singh Kalsi dwells on the need for nostalgia with a tongue-in-cheek approach. Rhys Hughes makes us rollick with laughter when he talks of his trip to Kerala and yet there is no derision, perhaps, even a sense of admiration in the tone. Hughes poetry also revels in humour. We have wonderful poetry from Jared Carter, Ranu Uniyal, Asad Latif, Anaya Sarkar, Michael R Burch, Scott Thomas Outlar, Priyanka Panwar, George Freek and many more.

The flavours of cultures is enhanced by the translation of Nazrul’s inspirational poetry by Professor Fakrul Alam, Korean poetry written and translated by Ihlwha Choi and a transcreation of Tagore’s poem Banshi (or flute) which explores the theme of inspiration and the muse. We have a story by S Ramakrishnan translated from Tamil by R Sathish. The short stories featured at the start of this year startle with their content. Salini Vineeth writes a story set in the future and Paul Mirabile tells the gripping poignant tale of a strange child.

With these and more, we welcome you to savour the January 2023 edition of Borderless, which has been delayed a bit as we were busy with the book events for our first anthology. I am truly grateful to all those who arranged the discussions and hosted us, especially Ruchika Khanna, Om Books International, the English Literary Society of Hans Raj College and to the attendees of the event. My heartfelt thanks to the indefatigable team and our wonderful writers, artists and readers, without who this journey would have remained incomplete. Special thanks to Sohana Manzoor for her artwork. Many thanks to the readers of Borderless Journal and Monalisa No Longer Smiles. I hope you will find the book to your liking. We have made a special page for all comments and reviews.

I wish you a wonderful 2023. Let us make a New Year’s wish —

May all wars and conflicts end so that our iconic Monalisa can start smiling again!

Mitali Chakravarty,

borderlessjournal.com

Photographs of events around Monalisa No Longer Smiles: An Anthology of Writings from across the World. Click here to access the Book.

Left to right: Mitali Chakravarty, Sanjay Kumar, Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri, Meenakshi Malhotra and Debraj Mookerjee

Left to right: Radha Chakravarty, Mitali Chakravarty, Aruna Chakravarti, Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri

Insta Link to an excerpt of the launch at Om Bookstore. Click here to view.

E-Launch of the first anthology of Borderless Journal, November 14th 2022. Click here to view.

Tags A Handful of Sesame, Aruna Chakravarti, Asad Latif, Banshi, Bhaskar Parichha, Cambridge University Press, Candice Louisa Daquin, Chaturvedi Divi, Debraj Mookerjee, Delhi, Delhi University, Devraj Singh Kalsi, English Literary Society, Farouk Gulsara, Freddy Mercury, George Freek, Gracy Samjetsabam, HansRaj College, Ihlwha Choi, Jared Carter, KA Abbas, Kalidasa, Korean, Ladies Tailor: A Novel, MA Sreenivasan, Maithreyi Karnoor, Meenakshi Malhotra, Meghaduta, Meredith Stephens, Michael R Burch, Midlands, Mike Smith, Mississippi Masala, Monalisa No Longer Smiles: An Anthology of Writings from across the World, Monsoon, Nabaneeta Choudhury, Nazrul, Of the Raj Maharajas and Me, Om Books International, Om Bookstores, Pandies, Partition, Paul Mirabile, Performing Teaching and Writing Theatre: Exploring Play, Priya Hajela, PVLF, R Satish, Radha Chakravarty, Raj, Rakhi Dalal, Ranu Uniyal, Ratnottama Sengupta, Ravi Shankar, Republic Day India, Rhys Hughes, Rishi Sunak, Ritusamhara, Ruchika Khanna, S Ramakrishnan, Salini Vineeth, Sanjay Kumar, Sarpreet Kaur, Scott Thomas Outlar, Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri, Shrinivas Vaidya, Sohana Manzoor, Somdatta Mandal, Sone Chandi Ke Buth: Writings on Cinema, Suhas Roy, Sukhpreet Kahlon, Suzanne Kamata, Syeda Hameed, Tagore, Tamil, Tsunami 2004

Stories

Nobody in the Sky

Story by S Ramakrishnan, translated from Tamil by R. Sathish

Midway through the movie, Chitra felt very hungry. But she did not fuss over it.

Like clockwork by 8pm, the stomach rang its hunger alarm. She always finished her dinner before 9. But on movie-going days, she couldn’t do much, though.

She was munching on popcorn. But that barely satiated her hunger. She couldn’t focus on the movie. She badly wanted to go home.

Karthick, sitting next to her, was fully immersed in the movie. She softly asked Priya, her eight-year old daughter seated to her right, “Are you hungry?” She nodded. On most days, Priya would be in bed by nine.

Chitra wondered if at least the two of them could step out for some quick bites. But Karthick wouldn’t like it. How long for the movie to finish, she didn’t know.

She sat tight and bore with it. No more interested in the movie, she browsed through the Whatsapp messages on her phone.

That day was their wedding anniversary.

They were celebrating their tenth.

Chitra had taken a day off from office. But not Karthick who promised to come early in the evening. Well, quite strangely, they didn’t know how to celebrate their anniversary. Year after year, they routinely put on new clothes, visited a temple, watched a movie, and ended their special day with a non-vegetarian meal at a hotel. Chitra found this utterly boring.

If we unable to make ourselves happy, we cannot have anyone bring that unexpected joy for into our lives. Be it a wedding day or a birthday, we celebrate pretty much in the same way. Hardly any difference.

For a few years, they invited some friends home for birthdays. But those interactions were anything but real. Fake smiles and pretensions. Complaints about how a certain person was not invited on purpose and a critique of the dinner fare. Such needless problems made them stop hosting parties.

As for the anniversary, whether it was the ninth or the tenth, the milestone made no difference. On that day, we had to look happy and cheerful.

She had given Priya a day off from school, and kept her home for company. Karthick scolded her for this.

“What is she going to do by not attending school?”

“What am I going to do, by the way! Never mind, let her be with me “.

“That’s indeed what I am also asking you. We are not kids, Chitra. In fact, even you should be going to the office. We are going out only in the evening. Aren’t we?”

“I don’t feel like going today. And I have informed my office.

“That’s your choice. But, let her go”.

“Nothing will be lost in a day, pa”.

“Your choice”, grumbled Karthick with a tight face. Wedding day… so, Chitra did not want to quarrel.

As he got on to his bike, ready to leave, she gently asked, “You will be home for lunch, right?”

“Will see. Have a lot of work.”

“Shall we…. come over to your office? We can all head to ECR for lunch from there.”

“No need, I will try to come early.”

“I am cooking many items: Aviyal, Curry, Koottu, Pachadi, Payasam,…“

“Okay, I will come. But can be a little delayed.”

“Will wait for you.”

Karthick, dapper in his new clothes, rode off to his office. Chitra and Priya hung around in the house. Chitra pulled out her wedding album, flipped through the photographs. Have put on a little more weight now. Wedding makeup doesn’t look good. Hair is dishevelled near the ear. Didn’t notice at all.

Many of the jewels she wore at the wedding belonged to her aunt. She had loaned them for a day. Chitra wished to buy them all by herself one day. After all these years, that day had yet to come.

When young, Chitra dreamt that angels would descend from above and lavish her with lovely gifts. After the wedding, she realised that one must create one’s own moments of joy. There was nobody high up in the sky to delight her.

It was already 10:30 when she and Priya boarded the “share auto” to go to the supermarket. They got down at the main road. Beyond the signal and to the left was the supermarket. Along the way, when they crossed Shivani Readymade Store, Chitra asked, “Priya, would you like a new dress?”

“For what?”

“Should only Amma and Appa wear new clothes for the wedding day?”

“So, I also get a new dress?” Priya asked eagerly.

They entered the store. As she was choosing the dress for Priya, Chitra looked around for any new sarees for her too. She found one. In her favourite ‘peacock neck” colour. But she hesitated.

“Buy it, ma. Appa[1] won’t scold”.

Chitra considered checking with Karthick. She had already set aside a silk saree for the anniversary. But this would look better on her, she felt.

Priya chose an ethnic party wear in white with floral patterns. Chitra wanted to wear this sort of dress when she was young. But her father never bought them.

“No white dress for girls,” her father would say sternly.

The ethnic dress looked so pretty. She checked the price tag. It revealed 8300 rupees! Karthick would definitely scold her. But Priya likes it! She looked pleadingly at her mom.

“Okay, take it,” said Chitra.

They both looked thrilled when they left the store with one new dress for each of them. She wished there could be someone who would take her out and allow her to buy what she wanted.

At the supermarket, Priya bought a chocolate bar and hid it to give them later as her gift. On their way back, with handfuls of bags, they stopped by an ice cream parlour next to a tailor shop. They treated themselves to an almond ice cream. Priya had never felt happier.

Once home, almost instinctively, Chitra started humming her favourite song from some Tamil movie — “A pleasant mind embraces music (oru iniya mandhu isaiyai anaiththu chellum)”. While enjoying the song, Priya asked, “Did anyone sing at your wedding, ma?”

“No, not really”.

“But I see people sing and dance around the couple in movies”.

“Oh! That is a film wedding. This is a real wedding”.

“Why don’t they sing at the real weddings?”

“Yeah… why shouldn’t they? But anyway who knows to sing?”

It was getting late for lunch. Chitra got down to cook. Meanwhile, Priya put on her new dress and stood before Chitra. How beautiful she looked! Chitra recalled how she must have also looked pretty like Priya when young. Pulling Priya towards her, Chitra hugged her tightly and stroked her hair.

“Do I look beautiful, ma?”

“You look pretty”.

“Reema is the most beautiful girl in our class. You know, how her skin shines!”

“That is not natural, my baby. Only your skin is natural”. After all, she could but only console herself.

Excited about her new dress, Priya took a selfie with Chitra’s phone, and doubtfully asked,

“Amma[2], can I send this photo to daddy?”

“No, let it be a surprise”.

Songs kept springing forth as she cooked. Only sometimes was she able to cook with such joy. On most days, it was a chore. An unavoidable work.

It was a big spread she made that day. She and Priya relished a glass of payasam[3] each as soon as it was ready. After arranging the dishes on the dining table, they waited for Karthick.

Chitra came out of the bedroom dressed in her “peacock neck” blue saree. She so wanted to try it out.

“It looks super, ma”, said Priya adoringly looking at her mother.

“Does amma look beautiful?”

“Very beautiful,” said Priya as she went to her and tenderly moved her hands over the saree.

They both waited, dressed in all their fineries, for Karthick. It was 2pm, and he had not come home yet. Chitra phoned him. He did not answer the call. They were famished. She really wanted to eat. When he came at last at 2:30, she did not show any anger.

“Sorry, Chitra. Colleagues demanded a treat. Went to Buhari.”

“That’s okay, but you could have told me that”.

“I ate very less biryani. Wanted to eat with you at home, you know,” Karthick replied with a fake smile.

They ate together. He made no comment about the many dishes she had whipped up. She had lost her appetite waiting for him, so couldn’t quite relish her meal. Karthick helped himself to a glass cup of payasam, sat before the TV and asked,

“The baby is in a new dress. When did we buy this?”

“Today morning. Amma and I bought it. Even the saree she wears is new,” chimed in Priya.

“Why a white-coloured dress, dear? It will get dirty soon.”

His words sounded exactly like her father’s. Suppressing her anger, she responded, “We can wash it if it gets dirty.”

“But why a new saree for you? You do have a new silk saree. Don’t you?”

“I don’t have this colour.”

Good heavens! He did not ask the price of Priya’s dress.

“I need to go back to the office. You both come over directly to the mall at 6pm.”

“What about to the temple?”

“We can do it another day. No time today.”

Karthick left as soon as he got a call from the office. Chitra and Priya changed over to their regular clothes. Priya switched to TV. Chitra withdrew to her bedroom and dozed off. Woke up only at 5pm.

Strangely, she had a dream in an afternoon nap! She wore a new saree even in her dream! With a nice hairdo and the new silk saree, Chitra was now ready for the evening. Priya was already waiting for her, all dressed up. They hired an autorickshaw[4] and reached the mall.

It was not bustling with shoppers. Chitra and Priya leisurely window-shopped. Took the escalator, landed at the multiplex on the fourth floor, and sat waiting for Karthick. Chitra wondered if there would be any more “anniversary couples” in the mall. Many young men were streaming out of the cinema after the English movie.

She called Karthick to find out if he had left. No answer. They spent their time watching the various ads on the big, wide screen.

“We should also have a car like this, ma,” Priya expressed her desire.

“It costs forty lakh rupees.”

“Then, let us buy some other car.”

“First, house; then, a car.”

“You have been saying this for a long time… nothing has happened.”

“Need at least sixty to seventy lakhs to buy a house,” said Chitra with a sigh.

Chitra realised that a man, in a light red linen shirt, had been staring at her. She felt he was only admiring her. Luckily, Priya didn’t notice it. Soon, a girl in jeans and black top joined him. Holding hands, they proceeded to Screen no 4. She had never walked hand-in-hand with Karthick in a public place. Was this also something to wish for… She chided herself.

When Karthick turned up, it was 6:40pm.

“Movie starts at seven.”

“We could have come late, after all.”

“Didn’t notice. Saw it only after coming here.”

They got into the cinema hall. Karthick walked along but was busy talking to someone on the phone.

It was 10 when the film ended.

“There is a restaurant on the second floor. Let us eat there,” proposed Chitra.

“That is a costly place. Chicken soup… 400 bucks. Not worth it. Food is also crap.
Let us eat at the newly-opened Red Chillies.”

“Where is it?”

“Will check the map.”

“It is already 10pm.”

“It is close by. We will be there soon.”

They rode off on his motorbike. There was no restaurant at the place indicated by the online map. After some roundabouts, they spotted it beyond a couple of streets. It was a small joint. Crowded. They got a table after waiting for some time.

Tired-faced, in a dragged voice, Priya said, “Feeling sleepy, ma.”

“Eat your favourite veechu parotta[5],”suggested Karthick.

Priya nodded her head. It took half an hour for the food to be served. It was very spicy. She couldn’t eat. Karthick ate his kothu parotta 5with relish. Priya nibbled on her parotta drowsily. When they left the place with their leftovers packed, it was past 11.

They lived in Jafferkhanpet. There were many stray dogs around. Karthick didn’t like to live in a multi-storey apartment. Though the house was far inside from the main road, he could get an independent house there. The street leading up to the house ran parallel to Cooum, a polluted river infested with mosquitoes. Theirs was a two-bedroom house.

They did not quite interact with neighbours. They had a motorbike. So they could do their shopping at the main road easily. The place also had many “share autos”. Chitra used them to go to her office and come back home.

Sensing that they might come late, Chitra had switched on the corridor lamp before leaving the house. It shone distinctly to be spotted from the beginning of the lane.

“Keys?” Karthick asked for them as he parked his bike and closed the gate.

She shuffled through her handbag. The keys couldn’t be found.

“Where is the key?” Karthick asked irritably.

She opened her handbag and searched all over. She undid the zipper of the pocket outside and the zipper of the pocket inside. She couldn’t find it.

“The key is missing,” said Chitra with trepidation.

“Didn’t you buy popcorn during the intermission? And taken out the money from the bag.”

“But I unzipped the pocket on the side to take out the cash.”

“So, where did it go?”

“No idea.” said Chitra, worried.

“Could it have fallen down in the cinema?” asked Karthick, filled with anger.

“Possible,” said Chitra nodding her head.

“Let me go and check. You both wait here,” said Karthick frowning at her.

“You didn’t take the keys, ma. I saw them on the key holder.” Priya reminded her.

“Why couldn’t you tell me then?” Chitra scolded her.

“I thought you would be taking it while leaving.”

Chitra realised she had locked the door by shutting it but had forgotten to take the key.
The door lock came with a small key. A modern type lock which locked itself when one shut the door. If it had been a key of the older model, no one could forget it. Amma had it tucked to her waist always.

Now, there was no spare key for this either. Karthick had lost his in his office.

“The key is inside the house,” said Chitra.

“So, how are we to get in?” asked Karthick with anger intact.

“Shall we ask someone for help?”

“Do you know what time it is now? 11:30. Whom can we ask at this unearthly hour?”

“Shall I talk to Nithu?”

“Do whatever you want. Let me see if I can get any help at the main road”

Karthick left on his motorbike.

Standing outside her locked house, Chitra phoned Nithya, her friend. Half asleep, “What happened di[6]. Is someone not well?” she enquired.

“The key is stuck inside the house. I don’t know what to do.”

“Come over to my house. We will figure out in the morning”.

“Can we find any locksmith now?”

“Not at this hour.”

“If you have any contact number, give me.”

“Nothing now. Just come over to my place.”

“Okay, will think about it.” Chitra hung up.

How much more longer could they wait outside like this! Not one house in the street had a bench on the veranda or even a staircase step to sit on. Only iron gates. Couldn’t someone have at least left a plastic chair outside? Could have been helpful in such times, she felt.

Priya, overcome with sleep, asked, “What should we do now, ma?”

No place for little Priya to rest. The street suddenly looked scary to Chitra.

Who could they seek help from? What could anyone do? Head to Nithya’s place without further delay and spend the night there?

Karthick returned, keeping a tight face.

“The locksmith is on the way. Wants thousand rupees”.

They waited outside the house. The street lamp at the end of the street shone brightly. Clueless, Chitra walked towards the lamp. A dog opened its eyes and lifted its head towards her. It did not bark.

A fifty-something man came on a bike, with a bag full of keys. He asked Karthick to point the flashlight from his phone at the keyhole.

He couldn’t open the lock even after trying with different types of keys.

“Only an original key can open this lock, sir. This is an expensive lock. The company alone has a duplicate key for this”.

“What am I to do now?”

“Take the help of some carpenter. He will break open the door.”

“It is a rented house. Can’t break the door, you know.”

“No other way. None of my keys is pairing with the lock.”

“Please do something. We have only you to depend on now.”

“Poor thing, your wife! Your kid also looks lost. Let me see if I have any more keys at home.”

“Shall I come along?”

“Not necessary, sir. How could you leave the womenfolk alone in the dark?”
The locksmith went away on his bike. Chitra felt guilty at having been so forgetful.

“Shall we spend the night at Nithu’s house?” Chitra asked very hesitantly.

“If that chap can’t open the door, then we can,” replied Karthick.

No woman has ever not worried about losing the keys. Yet she bears the brunt even
if others lose theirs. If only Karthick had come home in the evening, this wouldn’t have happened. But could she risk telling him that? He would turn livid.

A movie she didn’t like, food she didn’t relish — and to be standing outside your own house at this hour. All this irritated her. Such a situation would never have arisen in an apartment. Even if it did, the watchman would be around to help.

The three of them kept standing outside their house. Priya was leaning against the bike. Nithya called to ask if they were coming.

“I don’t know. The locksmith is yet to come with a new set of keys”.

“Shall I speak to Karthick?”

“No. He is seething with anger. He might even bark at you.”

“Come anytime,” said Nithya and disconnected the call.

Chitra felt like speaking to her mother. But she would panic on receiving a phone call at this odd hour. A situation like this would also leave her confused. But wait! Wasn’t she the one to force me to marry Karthick? Why shouldn’t I call her?

The locksmith hadn’t turned up yet. Karthick kept calling him. No answer. Not a soul to help them in this big metropolitan city. The house looked like a cave without an entrance. Irritated, Karthick also began walking towards the street corner.

The locksmith returned with another man. Together, they tried. The locksmith’s partner scraped the key continually and slid it inside the keyhole. Keeping his ear closer to the door, he studied the sound. After a long battle, the door opened.

Priya rushed to the bathroom. Karthick paid them off and thanked them.

As soon as Chitra entered the house, she looked for the key on its holder. It was dangling there, attached to a tiny elephant. She showed it to the locksmith.

“Who doesn’t forget, ma? If it was daytime, this wouldn’t have taken so long. I travelled all the way to Saidapet to bring this guy for your work. I am not familiar with these new types of lock; but he is an ace.”

Chitra gave the young man five hundred rupees.

“It is okay, akka[7]. Sir has already paid us.”

“This is for the trouble you took to come at this time.”

“Keep this key as a spare.” He handed her a key he had made.

After they left, she stood there staring blankly, not knowing if she should close the door or leave it open. Tears welled up. As it was their wedding anniversary, she consoled herself. Karthick had gone to bed after changing his clothes.

Chitra stepped out of the now-open house onto the street. It was past 2am. She had never seen the street at this hour. The warm street lights and the silence of the houses in the street — to her it was like a painting that had come to life.

She felt hungry. She did not eat well at the restaurant. There was some batter in the fridge. She thought of helping herself with a dosa[8]. But no, she felt she must punish herself by starving.

Putting away all the memories of the just-concluded chaos, she shut the door. In four hours, it would be another morning. To cook. To get Priya ready for school. To rush to office. She was already gasping for breath.

While dosing off to sleep, she realised that they had not even taken an anniversary photo.

As if all I miss is only that, she muttered.

[1] Father

[2] Mother

[3] A dessert

[4] Motorised version of a rickshaw

{5} Different types of paratha or pan fried flatbread.

[6] Elder sister

[7] Sister

[8] A crispy crepe made of rice and lentil

S Ramakrishnan is one of the most prolific and celebrated writers of modern Tamil literature. His vast body of work spans fiction, plays, screenplays and essays. He has written and published 11 novels, 55 collections of essays on world cinema, world literature, Indian history and painting; 20 anthologies of short stories, three plays and
21 books for children. He has received many major awards for his literary works, including the Sahitya Akademi Award in 2018, Tagore Literary Award and Maxim Gorky Award. Sancharam, the novel which won him the Sahitya Akademi award,is a poignant portrayal of the lives of Nadaswaram (a wind instrument) artists — an instrument that is a part of all celebrations but the artist who plays it is not part of the celebrations. His short stories and essays have been translated and published in English, Malayalam, Hindi, Bengali, Telugu, Kannada and French.

R Sathish is a translator from Tamil to English. He is an advertising professional, and lives in Hyderabad.

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Tags R Satish, S Ramakrishnan, Sahitya Akademi award, Tamil, Translation