Title: That’s A Fire Ant Right There! Tales from Kavali
Author: Mohammed Khadeer Babu
Translator: D.V. Subhashri
Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books
True-blue Palavenkareddy!
It’s only now when he’s running a Palav Center in front of Kavali Court that he’s able to see twenty-six rupees in his hand for every plate he sells, but there was a time in our childhood when Palavenkareddy too was down on his luck!
Palavenkareddy (Palav + Venkareddy) was my father’s best friend. He was also the one who got him married.
When my grandfather Mastan Sayibu was considering giving my mother’s hand in marriage to my father, it seems he went straight to Palavenkareddy to enquire about my father’s ‘conduct’.
‘Don’t worry about that boy, saami! He’s 24-carat gold. You can get them hitched with your eyes shut!’ Palavenkareddy reassured my grandpa and lifted a load off his mind.
Although seven-eight years older than my father, Palavenkareddy, always dressed in white, appeared much younger, with his toned muscles (he was a wrestler once, I might add), shining skin and dyed hair.
At the time of nikah, as my mother was still a young fourteen-year-old, Palavenkareddy used to address her as ‘ammayi’ or ‘girl’, and continued to call her that even after marriage. Whatever his feelings for my father, he definitely favoured my mother and had more affection for her.
If Sankranti was here, Palavenkareddy wouldn’t be far behind. He’d show up with a large steel carrier full of ariselu, manuboolu, laddulu and hand it to my mother saying, ‘Here you go, girl.’ Then he would take my father, my brother and me to his house, fill our leaf-plates full of sweet payasam and treat us to a full festival meal. (This is also the time to reveal yet another truth. Until recently, whenever my mother had to go to a wedding or any other function, she would borrow Palavenkareddy’s wife’s or daughter-in-law’s jewellery as if she had every right to do so.)
I don’t really know if he was into farming or not, but as kids we always saw she-buffaloes tied up at their house. His wife would wake up early and toil hard, tending to the buffaloes all day. Seemingly in an effort to reduce her drudgery, he dabbled in various businesses, but being a man of truth, failed to make money in any of them. Finally, he hit the jackpot when he opened the Palav Centre. And since then, his surname changed from Remala to Palav and he came to be known as Palavenkareddy to everyone in our town.
During our childhood, he owned a cloth store near the Ongole bus stand. Barely a metre would sell each day at the shop, but Palavenkareddy and his elder son could always be seen dutifully minding the store.
Now why I’ve been telling you this long story about Palavenkareddy is because when the month of Ramzan arrived we were forced to draw on his services—thanks to my mother’s pestering.
‘All the ladies in the street are going to Gademsetty Subbarao’s shop and getting themselves whatever clothes they want. Why don’t you also toss me a hundred or two? I’ll go get the children some new clothes.’ My mother had been badgering my father ever since Ramzan had begun.
My father responded with neither ‘aan’ nor ‘oon’. Ultimately, she decided that this was not the medicine for my father’s attitude and cleverly started instigating my grandma.
‘Rey abbaya! How heartless can you get! Even if we adults don’t buy anything, how can you not get a few pieces of cloth for the children? When other children in the street roam around wearing new clothes, won’t ours feel bad?’ poked my grandma.
Who knows what came over him, but he replied, ‘Send the older one and the second one to the shop in the evening. If I happen to get money by then, I’ll buy them some, alright,’ and left for work.
When evening came, with high hopes my mother dressed us up—not just me and my brother but also our sister—and sent us to our electrical shop on Railway Road.
And my father? What did he do? When we reached there, he was sitting at the table with a deadpan face and hands over his head. The moment he saw us, he stood up and said, ‘Not today. Go home,’ then picked up my little sister and prepared to lock the shop.
We were crestfallen. My brother was on the verge of tears.
That is exactly when, like Gods appearing out of nowhere, Palavenkareddy appeared before us. On seeing us, he laughed, ‘Endayyo? What’s up here? All the little Nawabs have descended together.’
My father too laughed and told him the matter. ‘What, Karim Sayiba? The children have come for their festival clothes and you’re taking them back empty-handed? Didn’t you think of my shop? Come, come, let’s go,’ Palavenkareddy urged him.
‘Not now, Enkareddy. We’ll see when I have the money,’ said my father reluctantly.
‘Do you ask for money when you do electric work in my house? Then why would I demand money for the children’s clothes?’ he insisted, herding us along. And so, together we all went to Palavenkareddy’s cloth shop near Ongole bus stand.
‘Karim Sayiba! It’s not as if you’re going to buy clothes again anytime soon, so might as well pick a sturdy fabric that will last a few days,’ he said, opening a wooden almirah and pulling out a tough-looking piece of blue cloth from the swathes of fabric inside.
‘Guarantee cloth. No question of tearing at all,’ he said.
Whenever my father hears the word ‘guarantee’, he forgets everything else and says, ‘Yes, give that one’, and so, he said the same to Palavenkareddy as well.
That was that! Before we knew it, in five minutes Palavenkareddy had cut the cloth and all of us had given our measurements to the tailor Sayibu beside the shop, who promptly soaked the cloth in an iron bucket.
(Excerpted from That’s A Fire Ant Right There! Tales from Kavali by Mohammed Khadeer Babu, translated by D.V. Subhashri. Published by Speaking Tiger Books)
ABOUT THE BOOK: Captured in the innocent voice of a young boy, Mohammed Khadeer Babu’s Chaplinesque-style of portraying misery through humour shines a sweeping light on Muslim lives in coastal Andhra. Populated with strong women, cheeky scamps, virtuous dawdlers and scrupulous teachers, his witty storytelling in the Nellore dialect is a riveting portrayal of the daily struggles of adapting to a majoritarian world in small-town India. Belying the nostalgic memories of childhood are scathing observations of the education system, child labour, social barriers, and casteist attitudes. Yet, the stories also resound with a clear message of friendship, especially among Hindus and Muslims, making this book essential reading in today’s fraught times, to remind ourselves of our inherited legacy of communal harmony—which makes it possible for the young narrator to say, ‘I’ve never regretted even once that I didn’t learn Urdu or that I don’t know Arabic, or that I have never even touched the Quran in these languages, only in Telugu.’
D.V. Subhashri’s unique translation, which retains all the richness of the original, quaint expressions and sounds et al, brings a smile to our faces, while showing us why the book made Khadeer Babu a household name in the Telugu community. This first English translation of his work opens up a new world for us.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Mohammed Khadeer Babu is a senior journalist and award-winning writer in Telugu with short stories, anthologies, non-fiction books and movies to his credit. A two-time Katha awardee, his stories have won various prizes at the state and national level and earned him the Government of Andhra Pradesh Achievement Award in 2023.
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR: D.V. Subhashri is a multilingual writer and translator based out of Bangalore. Her stories and translations have appeared in various online magazines and her children’s books have won awards in Telugu and English. She is currently translating two books from Telugu and Kannada.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
A wealthy man named Dharmayya hired a carpenter to do the woodwork for his newly constructed house. He handed over the timber required for doors and windows and asked him to begin the work.
The carpenter brought his tools and started working. By the end of the week, the doors and windows were nearly ready. He used nails extensively to join and shape the wooden pieces.
One day, when the carpenter said he ran out of nails, Dharmayya immediately went to the market and bought some more. Showing them to the carpenter, he said, “The price of iron has gone up, so nails are expensive now. Still, I didn’t compromise on quality. Strong nails ensure durability. One shouldn’t hesitate to spend for lasting quality.”
One of the nails overheard these words — a particularly arrogant one — and it swelled with pride. It already had a haughty nature, and now hearing the owner’s praise, it became even more boastful.
Using every opportunity, it began to taunt the wood: “You’re nothing without us! Your strength and durability come only because of us. If you’ve earned any reputation, it’s because of the nails like me!”
But the wood didn’t mind. It calmly replied, “No one can survive alone. If I stand strong today because of you, I’m grateful.”
The nail didn’t like this response. The other nails and tools added, “Don’t say that. In a way, it’s because of you that we have any purpose.”
The arrogant nail was not pleased to hear even the other nails side with the wood. It glared at the wood and muttered, “Just wait. The moment I get a chance to tear through you, I’ll make you cry!”
Two days later, the carpenter happened to pick up that same nail. He placed it on the wood and struck it with a hammer. But the nail refused to go in. Seeing this, the carpenter struck it harder on the head with the hammer. The nail bent sideways. Trying to straighten it, he placed it on a stone and hit it again. This time, the blow landed badly and broke the nail’s head off.
Now useless, the carpenter tossed it into a corner and continued his work with a new nail.
The arrogant nail was shaken by the incident. It had never imagined such an end. Not knowing what to do, it sat there, broken, and wept.
As dusk fell, the carpenter packed up and left, leaving behind the wood, tools, and materials.
Seeing the nail lying sadly in a corner, the saw said, “So, miss high-and-mighty, look what happened to you! You thought the wood’s strength came from you? You mocked the very material that patiently endures our harsh cuts, believing that we are helping it become stronger. You couldn’t recognize its silent strength and goodness.
“When the carpenter hurts the wood while crafting a beautiful home, the wood endures it in silence. We are only tools used temporarily. But the wood is not weak. After being used once, who thinks about nails like you again? You wanted to hurt the wood but ended up ruining yourself. By morning, you’ll be swept away and tossed in the trash. Your life now has no purpose.”
The nail was finally enlightened. “I misunderstood the wood’s kindness as weakness and spoke arrogantly. It’s true — when good people get angry, they leave no trace of those who cross them.”
The truth is, the wood refused to let that nail in — not because it was weak, but to teach a lesson to that arrogant nail. Its resistance came from strength. It proved that the truly strong remain silent and fulfill their purpose without pride.
From Public Domain
.
Naramsetti Umamaheswararao has written more than a thousand stories, songs, and novels for children over 42 years. he has published 32 books. His novel, Anandalokam, received the Central Sahitya Akademi Award for children’s literature. He has received numerous awards and honours, including the Andhra Pradesh Government’s Distinguished Telugu Language Award and the Pratibha Award from Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University. He established the Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation and has been actively promoting children’s literature as its president.
.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
All around us, we hear of disasters. Often, we try to write of these as Tagore seems to do in the above lines. However, these lines follow after he says he draws solace and inspiration from a ‘serene lotus’, pristine and shining with vibrancy. He gazes at it while looking for that still point which helps him create an impact with words. That is perhaps what we can hope to do too — wait for a morning where clarity will show us the path to express not just what we see, but to find a way to heal and help. Finding parallels in great writings of yore to our own attempts at recreating the present makes us realise that perhaps history is cyclical. In Rome, new structures rear up against thousand-year walls, reflecting how the past congeals into the present.
Congealing the past into our present in this July’s issue are stories of American migrants — like Tom Alter’s family who made India their home — by Anuradha Kumar in her new non-fiction Wanderers, Adventurers, Missionaries: Early Americans in India. We feature this book with a review and an interview with the author where she tells us how and why she chose to write on these people. We have more people writing of their own wanderings. Mohul Bhowmick wanders into Cambodia and makes friends over a local sport while Prithvijeet Sinha strolls by the banks of the River Gomti in Lucknow. Meredith Stephens not only takes us to the Prime Meridien in Greenwich but also to Carnarvon which houses a science and technology centre in Australia. Devraj Singh Kalsi wanders with humour to discover gastronomical inspiration and hopes for sweeter recompense.
Taking up the theme of cli-fi, Rajat Chaudhuri’s Wonder Tales for a Warming Planetseems to bring hope by suggesting adapting to changing climes. Rakhi Dalal tells us in her review: “It dares to approach the climate crisis through the lens of empathy and imagination rather than panic or guilt. In doing so, Rajat Chaudhuri gives us what many adult climate narratives fail to deliver—a reason to believe that another world is not only possible but already being imagined by the young. All we need to do is listen.” Bhaskar Parichha has discussed the autobiography of a meteorologist and Distinguished University Professor at George Mason University, Jagadish Shukla. In A Billion Butterflies: A Life in Climate and Chaos Theory, he claims Shukla has “revolutionised monsoon forecasting.” Somdatta Mandal has written about Dilip K Das’s Epidemic Narratives: The Cultural Construction of Infectious Disease Outbreaks in India. And Gower Bhat reviews Neha Bansal’s best-selling poetry collection, Six of Cups.
With that, we wind up the contents of this month’s issue. Do pause by our content’s page to check it out in more details.
This month’s edition would not have been possible without all our contributors, our fabulous team and especially Sohana Manzoor’s artwork. Huge thanks to all of them and to our wonderful readers who make it worthwhile for us to write and publish. Do write in to us if you have any feedback. Five years ago, we chose to become a monthly from a daily… We have come a long way from then and grown to host writers from more than forty countries and readers from almost all over the world. For this, we owe you all – for being with us and encouraging us to find fresh pastures.
Story by Surya Dhananjay, translated from Telugu by Rahimanuddin Shaik
Surya Dhananjay
That night, in Tarnaka, Hyderabad city, all the apartments were silent as if lost in deep sleep. Sujatha’s flat was one among those. Her husband and children were sound asleep. Meanwhile, she, in the bedroom, faintly heard the phone ringing in the hall. Sujatha, a lecturer by profession, was awake, preparing for the next day’s class. A strange fear gripped her as the phone rang at that hour. As if someone was chasing her, she rushed to answer the phone. It was an unknown number. She thought of calling back but decided against it, thinking it was too late at night. The phone rang again. She immediately picked it up.
Who could it be? Why would they call at this hour of the night?
Various thoughts raced through her mind. Thinking she’d find out who it was if she called back, she redialled
“Hello,” she said, and that was it!
She could hear crying and shouting from the other end. Then the phone got disconnected again. Anxiously, she redialled, but the phone had been switched off. She checked Truecaller app[2] to see who it might be. ‘Not found’ was the result. Putting aside the book she was reading, she lay down. But she couldn’t sleep. Various thoughts haunted her. She didn’t know when she finally drifted off to sleep.
Morning dawned bright. Waking up, she fearfully picked up her phone. There were four or five messages.
She read: “Mastan anna2 is no more. He has left us.”
She felt like a thunderbolt had stricken her heart. Her eyes filled with tears. Wiping them away, she read the message again. The news slowly sank in – the news that the brother she had cherished since childhood, Mastan anna[3] who eagerly awaited for the rakhi[4] she tied every year, was gone. Tears flowed uncontrollably from her eyes. Her tear-filled eyes became slightly blurry. Through that blur, her childhood memories, mixed with tears, began to drip down drop by drop.
Sujatha was then studying in the sixth standard at Miryalaguda Girls’ High School. She came from Hemanayak tanda,[5] near the Sagar canal. Her mother, Dhwali Bai, and father Bhadru Naik were forward thinking people. Though they had only daughters, they educated them well instead of arranging child marriages for them like everybody else. Sujatha was the youngest. Theirs was a family living happily in the lap of nature, drawing their living from small-scale farming and raising cows.
Dhwali Bai occasionally went to the Miryalaguda market for groceries. On her way back, she would drop off the children’s clothes for stitching at tailor Mastan’s shop in the old bus stand area. Not just her, everyone from the tanda got their clothes stitched there for festivals and occasions. Mastan treated his customers well. He was thin in appearance and always wore clothes as white as jasmine flowers. He captivated everyone with his gentle speech. He had immense respect for Dhwali Bai and Bhadru Naik’s family. He called Dhwali Bai ‘Amma[6]’. Dhwali Bai always wished well for others. He was won over by her kindness. Dhwali Bai, who had no sons, saw a son in him. After some time, their bond grew, and Mastan became a member of the family.
Back then, there was only one bus service from Miryalaguda to Hemanayak tanda. It made only two trips a day – one in the morning and one in the evening. Sujatha, studying in Miryalaguda, would go home every Saturday evening by this bus. Her mother would wash all her school dresses white. She would oil her hair and braid it into two plaits. While making her hair, Dhwali Bai would advise Sujatha to be careful in the town.
“Because I didn’t study, I didn’t know the world. You, at least, study well and bring light to our tanda, Beti[7]. Even if Bhadru Naik has no sons, the daughters he has should study well and become role models for everyone,” Dhwali would say.
One day, Dhwali Bai, having come to drop Sujatha at the hostel, introduced Sujatha to Mastan.
“Look, Beta[8], this is your younger sister. You need to make a uniform for her. Otherwise, they won’t let her into school today. Also, whenever she comes to board the service bus, you must save a seat for her by placing a towel near the window. Tell that conductor to take the girl carefully and drop her off at the tanda gate. There aren’t good boys on the buses these days. Tell the driver to scare those boys a bit,” Dhwali instructed, as if instructing her own son.
Mastan smiled. “Alright, Yaadi[9], I’ll do as you say. I’ll look after Sujatha like my own sister. From the moment she gets off the bus all the way to her school, and after school, putting her on the bus to the tanda – it’s my responsibility,” he said, engaging them in conversation while quickly stitching a skirt and blouse for Sujatha.
“Here, sister, this dress is a gift from your brother,” he offered.
Sujatha shook her head as if declining the gift and looked at Dhwali Bai.
“Don’t take it for free, Amma. Instead, she can tie rakhi on me every year,” he said, placing the dress in her hand. From that day, their bond grew. Mastan looked after Sujatha like the apple of his eye. Their brother-sister relationship became known in the tanda as well. Every year, Mastan would go to the tanda, have Sujatha tie the rakhi, and receive Dhwali Bai’s blessings before returning. Mastan’s wife, Rajitha, was very happy that he treated Sujatha with such respect and love, even though she wasn’t his biological sister.
However, some people in the tanda didn’t like their bond. Naturally, the tanda dwellers lived happily like deer in the forest, away from the plains. Just as deer get agitated by the presence of a new creature, they hesitated when non-tribals mixed with them. They viewed Mastan’s visits to the tanda with suspicion. Kalya, Sakku, and Saida decided they must somehow stop Mastan from coming to the tanda. They didn’t dare discuss this with Bhadru Naik and Dhwali Bai. The tanda dwellers had immense respect for Bhadru. He treated everyone lovingly. Raising his daughters admirably, he stood as a role model. They didn’t dare oppose such a person. But they wanted to stop Mastan from coming to the tanda and were waiting for an opportunity.
Mastan, living amidst the car horns and crowds of Miryalaguda town, constantly stressed, dearly loved the tanda, its people, and its atmosphere. The peaceful tanda air, the innocent talk of the Lambadis, the mouth-watering jowar rotis and garlic chutney, the pleasing sight of green trees, cows, goats, and chickens in every house – Mastan liked all this very much. Moreover, like Bhadru Naik and Dhwali Bai, Mastan had an immense love for people and relationships. He helped those who came to his shop within his means and earned a good reputation around the old bus stand. If anyone came to the Mandal[10] Revenue Office with work, he would inquire about their problem, connect them with officers he knew, and provide appropriate help.
That day was 15th August[11], flag hoisting Day. Mastan went to the school looking for his sister. But Sujatha wasn’t there. As it was also Rakhi that day, Mastan learned from her friends that Sujatha had gone to the tanda the previous day to tie rakhis to her brothers there. Mastan set off for the tanda, cycling. Near the tanda, he saw some children and gave them chocolates. Sakku and Saida, who were coming that way, saw Mastan giving chocolates. They came up to him.
“Hey Mastan! What are you giving the kids? Are you giving them some enchanted marbles?!” they asked suspiciously.
“Ayyo, nothing like that, Bhiya[12]! These are just chocolates distributed at school, I brought them in my pocket. That’s what I’m giving,” Mastan replied and moved on.
Reaching Dhwali Bai’s house, Sujatha saw Mastan and shouted joyfully, “Yaadi, Mastan anna has come!”. Sujatha tied the rakhi on Mastan’s wrist and fed him sugar.
“Mastan anna, I tied the rakhi, what will you give me?” she asked.
“You’ll go to Hyderabad for higher studies, won’t you! If you get a job, you’ll stay there. Then, I myself will look after Yaadi and Bapu[13]. That is the gift I give you,” he said, smiling as he mounted his cycle.
Ten days later, suddenly, everyone in the tanda fell sick with fever. Some had diarrhoea and vomiting. Every house had patients. The tanda, which until then was like a marigold field full of bright flowers, now looked like a cotton field stripped of its flowers. Dark and unwell.
‘Some evil misfortune has befallen the village,’ people began to think.
“No, no, some ghost has possessed the tanda,” said one. “No, we didn’t celebrate the Seethlayadi festival grandly this time. That’s why the goddess is angry,” said another.
“Yes, the village deities of the tanda are angry. We must call the priest. We need to talk. Let’s all contribute a hundred rupees each and celebrate the festival well,” said the Tanda Naik[14].
“Oh Naik, these are not the real reasons why the people in the tanda suffer. That tailor shop Mastan is the cause of all this. He did this. They say he knows magic spells. Whatever he wishes, happens, they say. We found out in town,” Saida spoke passionately, his words sparking fear in the hearts of the tanda people.
“Hey, don’t talk nonsense, Saida! Mastan is not that kind of person,” Bhadru Naik thundered angrily.
Realising that his words would be wasted if he didn’t counter Bhadru, Saida looked at Sakku. “Hey Sakku! Didn’t Mastan give marbles to our tanda boys the other day…?”
“Oh… he did, Saida. I saw it too.”
“Ah! He put enchanted spell on those marbles.”
The people slowly nodded their heads, seeming to agree with Saida’s words. Meanwhile, someone from the crowd said, “In that case, we must catch that Mastan! We must make him confess what spell he used. If we just leave him, our tanda will be ruined. Only if we punish him severely will anyone else be afraid to even look towards our tanda,” they said.
“We will go and catch him,” said Kalya, Sakku, and Saida, setting off for Miryalaguda. Since everyone was united on this, Bhadru Naik and Dhwali couldn’t refuse.
The next day, Sakku, Saida, and Kalya met Mastan. “Our tanda dwellers have asked us to bring you. Come!” they said and took him away. Learning about the situation from school friends, Sujatha also left the hostel for the tanda. People gathered in front of the Tanda Naik’s house. Mastan was brought there. Sujatha reached the spot.
“Why have you brought me here?” Mastan asked the Tanda Naik.
“Everyone in our tanda has fallen ill with fever. We have never seen everyone get fevers like this at the same time. We are strong people. We can withstand any disease. But today, the entire tanda is troubled like this. They are saying you are the reason for all this. They say you gave some enchanted marbles to our boys. People apparently saw it. If that is true, tell us the counter-spell. Otherwise, the people are angry. They won’t leave you,” the Naik concluded, looking straight into Mastan’s eyes.
The accusation pierced Mastan’s heart like a crowbar.
“Spells?… I don’t know what those are. I only know how to love others. Please trust me,” he replied pitifully.
“Then what did you mix in those chocolates? What about them?” Kalya questioned.
“Those were distributed on the Independence Day at Sujatha’s school.”
“Then why did you bring them here? Aren’t there any little boys in Miryalaguda? Our boys look healthy and vibrant. That’s why you got jealous. You couldn’t bear it. Isn’t that it?!” they bombarded Mastan with question after question.
Kalya, Sakku, and Saida, who wanted to stop Mastan from coming to the tanda, saw this small opportunity as a great one and launched their attack. The people, suffering from fear and pain due to the fevers, couldn’t think rationally about right and wrong. They almost fell upon Mastan and beat him. Even though Bhadru, Dhwali, and Sujatha tried to stop them, no one listened. Swinging furiously, they attacked him.
“Don’t do this my fellow brothers, Mastan anna is not like that.”
“Hey Mastan, don’t ever look towards our tanda again! Go!” Before the Naik could finish his words, Sujatha interrupted, “Dada[15], is this your wisdom? Can’t your leadership distinguish between good and bad people?” she asked, her voice filled with anger and anguish.
“You don’t know about him, child,”
“I know everything, Dada! I am studying in the sixth standard. Science doesn’t accept spells and magic. Those are just our fears. Mastan anna is a good man. He considers not just me, but all the children of our tanda as his brothers and sisters. To stay in our tanda which suspected and insulted a good man like Mastan anna, I too feel humiliated, Dada!” she cried, taking Mastan away.
From then on, Mastan stopped coming to the tanda and Sujatha moved out of the tanda to study in less than a month. Eventually, she married and settled down in the capital town of Hyderabad. But she would come to Miryalaguda every year on Rakhi just to tie the rakhi on Mastan’s wrist. No matter how much anyone threatened, their brother-sister bond continued.
Hearing the news of Mastan’s death, Sujatha set off from Hyderabad to Miryalaguda with a grief-stricken heart. As she travelled in the car with her husband and children, childhood incidents flashed before her eyes.
“Though not of our caste, our religion, our tribe, the bond of humanity and the jewel of goodness united Mastan anna with our family. How good was Mastan anna! Though his shop was a small one, his heart was vast. Mastan anna always had the quality of helping others in his own way,” she thought to herself, looking out the car window. She realised they had reached the town. People were bustling in the shops along the roads. ‘What is it?’ she wondered, rolling down the car windows. People were enthusiastically buying rakhis. Whichever shop she looked at, only rakhis were visible.
Just then, Mastan’s small shop near the old bus stand came into her view. It was open. Seeing it, her heart grew heavy. Inside, she saw Mastan’s photo with a gentle smile and a serene face. Hundreds of rakhis surrounded the photo. The whole shop was filled with rakhis. Seeing this, crying she got out of the car and paid her respects. She was surprised and astonished looking at the farewell Mastan received.
The car reached Mastan’s house. There was no one outside the house. Only a few people were inside. Seeing Sujatha, Mastan’s wife, Rajitha, came out of the house crying and held her tightly. Rajitha’s told her that the cremation ceremony was over the night before. She said in a gloomy tone that only Mastan’s memories remained for them now. This left Sujatha stunned. She felt immense pain for not being able to have a final glimpse of Mastan.
Composing herself, Sujatha asked, “On the way, I saw many rakhis around Anna’s photo in that small shop. Who put them there?”
Then Rajitha replied, “The people of Hemanayak tanda tied them,” leaving Sujatha even more surprised.
“Our tanda people? Weren’t they angry with Anna, Vadina[16]?”
“That was once upon a time. The very people who misunderstood him under the pretext of spells came to admire him after knowing the truth. The occasion never arose to tell you this matter!”
“Really! How did they find out?” Sujatha asked eagerly.
“A month after they insulted him in front of the tanda Naik’s house, your brother went to the tanda on his cycle to plead with them and to tell them he knew nothing. On the way, beside the road, he apparently saw groups of crows and vultures gathered some distance away. Going closer, he saw that chicken shop owners from Miryalaguda town were dumping their waste there. Crows gathered around it, picking up the rotten stuff with their beaks, flying to the tanda’s water tank, sitting on it to eat, and dropping some of the pieces into the water tank. Those waters got contaminated, and cholera spread throughout the tanda.
She continued, “As soon as he understood the matter, he returned to Miryalaguda, complained to the Municipal Health Department, and got the waste removed. He got the tank cleaned. He got fines imposed on the chicken shop owners who dumped the waste there. He ensured no one came that way again.
“After some days, the diseases in the tanda subsided. The people learned the truth. Everyone came from the tanda and apologised and expressed their gratitude to your brother. They asked him to come to the tanda again. But your brother had too much self-respect. He said, ‘It’s enough that you know the truth, I won’t come again.’ The occasion never arose to tell you all this,” Rajitha said, handing Sujatha a packed cardboard box.
“Your brother asked me to give this to you,” Rajitha said. Sujatha opened it with great curiosity. Inside, he had carefully preserved all the rakhis she had tied on Mastan over the past twenty years. Seeing them, Sujatha cried profusely, realising Mastan’s noble personality, his heart as vast as the ocean, and his love for her as high as the Himalayas.
Along with the box, Rajitha gave Sujatha a packet that Mastan had also asked her to give. Inside was a green saree with a red border.
“Your brother himself spun the yarn and wove this saree. He worked hard for six months to weave it. Saying one shouldn’t remain indebted to a sister, and that he had never given you anything, he planned to call you for the Dasara festival this time and give you this saree,” Rajitha explained.
Mastan belonged to the Padmashali[17] community. In truth, Mastan had long forgotten how to spin yarn and weave sarees. But Sujatha was astonished that he had personally woven a saree for her.
“How much Mastan anna loved me! Truly, having such a brother is my fortune,” she offered a tribute from her heart. She felt very happy that the tanda people had understood Mastan’s goodness. Assuring Rajitha that she would take responsibility for educating Mastan’s two children and making them successful, Sujatha got into the car.
Now her heart felt elated. The anger she held towards her tanda for twenty years vanished. “My tanda dwellers are children of the forest. They are not aware of the outside world and its cunning ways. They all live together like one family. They don’t easily trust non-Lambadis or newcomers. That’s not just their characteristic. It’s also the law of the forest for their own protection. That’s why they insulted Mastan anna like that, that day. But if they love someone, they cherish them dearly. For them, everything is intense — love or anger. ” thinking thus, Sujatha reached Hyderabad with Mastan’s memories and a heavy heart.
.
Originally published in Telugu as Mastananna Dabba (tr. the box of Mastan brother) in Namaste Telangana, Sunday edition, on 8th March, 2020
Prof. Surya Dhananjay is an eminent Telugu scholar and folklorist from Osmania University. She champions tribal heritage and education with her writing. With an illustrious literary career spanning decades, Prof. Dhananjay has authored 28 books, including poetry, short stories, critical essays, historical studies, and compilations, alongside 80+ research papers. Her seminal work, Gor Banjara: An Enduring Tribe (co-authored with Dr. Dhananjay Naik), is a landmark exploration of Banjara (gipsy) heritage. Through her writings and advocacy, she has championed the preservation of cultural identities, leaving an indelible mark on Telugu literature and tribal studies.
Shaik Rahimanuddin has translated children’s literature on Storyweaver, Analpa and Prajasakti have published his children’s book translations.
.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
All the students of Seethanagaram High School stood in the playground for the morning prayer. The headmaster, along with the other teachers, was also present.
After the prayer, the headmaster addressed the students: “A new academic year began yesterday. Many new students will be joining us today. We will start lessons from tomorrow. For today, let’s spend the day playing games. Are you all ready?”
The mention of games excited the children. They enthusiastically replied, “Yes, Sir!”
“Alright! From where you are standing, try to reach the other end of the playground by hopping on one leg,” the headmaster instructed.
The students replied, “We can’t do that, Sir.”
“Don’t say that. You shouldn’t give up without trying. All of you, give it a shot,” he encouraged.
Some students stepped forward and tried to hop on one leg. A few managed to go a little distance before falling, while others gave up after a short while. The headmaster praised their efforts and asked them to return.
Next, the headmaster said, “Now, close your eyes and walk to the end of the playground.”
Just like before, the students shook their heads and said, “We can’t do that, Sir.”
“Don’t worry. We will be right behind you. No one should open their eyes or cheat,” the headmaster assured them.
Trusting his words, the students attempted the task. They walked slowly, but it was very difficult to walk with their eyes closed. They didn’t know what lay ahead—there could be stones or pits. They took each step with great fear. About three-quarters of the students gave up halfway, saying it was impossible. A few, with great difficulty, made it to the end of the playground. The headmaster praised their efforts and asked all the students to gather in the assembly hall.
Once all the teachers arrived in the assembly hall, the headmaster selected twenty students and paired them up to face each other. He tore some chits and wrote on them. Placing the chits in some of the students’ hands, he instructed them to convey the words in the torn scrap of paper to their partners using gestures. The students tried as instructed.
When asked if they understood what their partners were trying to convey, everyone said they did not.
Ravi, who had just started the tenth grade and was known for his courage, watched these games and asked, “Why did you have us do these activities, Sir? Do these games have anything to do with our studies? Walking on one leg, walking with eyes closed, and conveying messages through gestures were all very difficult. We struggled a lot, and some even fell. Why did you make us do this?”
The headmaster responded, “Ravi mentioned that walking on one leg, walking with eyes closed, and communicating through gestures were difficult. Do the rest of you agree?”
All the students nodded in agreement.
The headmaster then said, “You’re right. I agree with you. These tasks were indeed difficult. But due to the disabilities given to them by God, some people with physical impairments, like blindness or deafness, have to live their entire lives like this. Can we agree that their lives are more challenging than ours?”
The students remained silent, unable to answer. When the headmaster repeated the question, Ravi replied, “How would we know, Sir?”
“Didn’t you just experience what it feels like to be lame, blind, or deaf while playing those games? That should have given you some understanding. That’s why I asked,” the headmaster explained to Ravi, who nodded in agreement.
“Another question for all of you. If someone is in trouble, what should we do as fellow human beings?” the headmaster asked.
“We should help them,” the students replied.
“Good job! That’s the right answer,” the headmaster praised them, and the students responded loudly, “That’s right, Sir!”
The headmaster then asked, “We shouldn’t make fun of people like that, right?”
“No, Sir,” the students replied in unison.
At that moment, the headmaster called an attendant and had three students brought before the assembly.One student walked with the help of a stick. Another was visually impaired, and the third student’s disability was not visible but had a hearing impairment.
The headmaster showed these three students to the others and said, “These students joined our school yesterday. Two of their disabilities are visible, and the third has a hearing problem. They are already suffering from these disabilities. We should show compassion and offer our help to them. I have seen with my own eyes some students mocking and making them cry. That’s why I made you experience how difficult life is for those with such impairments through these games. These three students need your support and assistance. Not just these three, but anyone with disabilities, wherever they may be, should be helped. We should give them the assurance that we are here for them and give them moral support.”
The students responded loudly, “Yes Sir!”
At that moment, three students stood up and walked to the front of the assembly.
They said, “Sir, we were the ones who mocked them yesterday. We behaved wrongly because we didn’t understand their difficulties. Please forgive us.”
The headmaster advised them to help those in need and behave well in the future, and then he dismissed all the students to their classrooms.
Naramsetti Umamaheswararao has written more than a thousand stories, songs, and novels for children over 42 years. he has published 32 books. His novel, Anandalokam, received the Central Sahitya Akademi Award for children’s literature. He has received numerous awards and honours, including the Andhra Pradesh Government’s Distinguished Telugu Language Award and the Pratibha Award from Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University. He established the Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation and has been actively promoting children’s literature as its president.
.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Ravi, a fourth-grade boy, could never sit still. His hands were always busy with some mischief. Whenever he found something at home, he would play with it, often damaging valuable items. Despite his mother’s occasional scoldings, Ravi never stopped his antics or playing around.
One morning, while playing with a ball inside the house, Ravi threw it at the television in the hall. The screen cracked, and his furious mother couldn’t hold back her anger. She hit him, but before she could deliver more blows, Ravi’s father intervened, rescuing the boy.
Through tears, Ravi said, “I didn’t mean to, Dad! I promise I’ll never play with a ball inside the house again.” His father calmed him down and persuaded his mother to forgive him.
But Ravi’s mischief didn’t end there. Another day, he saw a bug on the glass-top tea table in the hall. Picking up a cricket bat, he swung at the bug, but it flew away unharmed. Unfortunately, the table shattered under the force of his swing. The sound of breaking glass brought his parents running. They found Ravi holding the bat, standing next to the broken table.
Afraid of another scolding, Ravi glanced nervously at his mother. Before she could say anything, his father stepped in and asked, “Didn’t you promise not to play inside the house? What happened now?”
“I only used the bat to hit a big bug on the table, Dad. It got away,” Ravi explained, gesturing with his hands. His father patiently advised him, “Alright, but remember, no more damaging things at home.” Ravi’s mother, however, remained silent, visibly upset.
Another day, Ravi wanted a storybook from the shelf. Climbing onto a chair to reach it, he accidentally knocked down several books and other items. Hearing the commotion, his mother rushed in to find books and belongings scattered on the floor.
Frustrated, she scolded, “How many times have I told you to be careful? You’re always breaking or dropping something! Now clean this mess up!” Ravi tried to explain that the other items fell when he pulled out one book, but his mother refused to listen. Feeling deeply hurt, Ravi decided to leave the house for a while.
“If I go out, Mom will worry and search for me. She might even cry. That would make her stop scolding me,” he thought.
Ravi walked to the nearby park. Sitting amidst the greenery, he watched people, children playing in the distance, and ducklings swimming in a pond. Slowly, his irritation and sadness faded.
Just then, he noticed a baby bird falling from a nest in a nearby tree. The bird chirped loudly in fear. Ravi quickly ran to the tree and caught the bird in his hands before it could hit the ground. Gently stroking its wings, he calmed the frightened bird.
From Public Domain
Moments later, the mother bird flew down, circling Ravi and chirping anxiously. The baby bird flapped its wings joyfully at the sight of its mother. Ravi placed the baby bird carefully back near its nest. The mother bird covered it lovingly with her wings.
“The mother bird came back to protect her baby. Maybe my mom is already worried about me. I should go home and let her know I’m safe,” Ravi thought.
Ravi rushed back home. The moment his mother saw him, she smiled and said, “Where were you? I made some payasam for you. Come and eat.” Ravi sat down and narrated everything that had happened in the park.
Hearing his story, his mother’s face lit up with pride. She kissed his cheek and said, “You’re my precious little gem. You’re mischievous at home, but outside, you’re so helpful and kind.”
Ravi realised, “Mom scolds me when I do wrong and praises me when I do good. She truly loves me. I should never make her sad or upset again.” From that day on, Ravi started listening to his mother and became more careful both at home and outside.
Naramsetti Umamaheswararao has written more than a thousand stories, songs, and novels for children over 42 years. he has published 32 books. His novel, Anandalokam, received the Central Sahitya Akademi Award for children’s literature. He has received numerous awards and honours, including the Andhra Pradesh Government’s Distinguished Telugu Language Award and the Pratibha Award from Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University. He established the Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation and has been actively promoting children’s literature as its president.
.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Author: Afsar Mohammad (translated to Telugu by P Srinivas Goud as Upavaasa Padyaalu)
Publisher: Bodhi Foundation
In the best of poems, the barrier between word and prayer crumbles, and in the greatest of them, it is dissolved into a timeless song of being. To name a collection of poems Fasting Hymns would be one thing but to summon and craft poems out of the very act of fasting is to elevate both poetry and prayer to a level of transcendence that only be accomplished by a world vision of the human soul. A collection of thirty poems, Fasting Hymns is Afsar Mohammad’s second book of poetry and invites comparisons in its honest sublimity with Rumi, and in its political engagement with the sinewy Bhakti poetry of the Indian subcontinent.
The ritual of fasting is of great significance in many traditions of thought. Valorised as an act of cleansing, of virtuous self-abnegation, of rest, sacrifice, healing and strength, voluntary and compulsive fasting constitute an important element of practice in several religions of the world. In contrast to the acquisition of physical energy through the act of eating, the act of fasting is believed to produce spiritual energy while also making for the rejuvenation and sustainability of the resources of production, including the earth and the body. Just as home reminds us of homelessness, fasting reminds us of food, of nourishment, of the body, and of the ways in which the body is negated, abused, denied, violated, punished and decimated by most discourses of power.
Most importantly, fasting recalls its close kin—hunger, for while fasting is a voluntary act of deferring consumption, hunger is an enforced act of deprivation and a stern reminder of the rampant food-wars and strategic starvation that a large part of the world’s population is led to regularly undergo for political and economic reasons. Fasting Hymns contextualizes the act of fasting within the month-long holy fast of of Ramadan and in underlining the centrality of this fast to Islamic ethics and philosophy.
There is a tranquillity to the book’s appearance–a visual script that overlaps reality, hope, and dream as its thirty poems commemorate the thirty days of fasting in the Islamic calendar. A linear travel of the consciousness meets us here, heightening in poem after poem as it widens to embrace larger spaces of geography and spirit. With each advancing day of the roza or fast, the poems travel deeper, unearthing spirit from body, soaring from ‘I’ to ‘us’, granting and seeking the essential solidarity of existence:
The sunken moon like an empty stomach Praying for a piece of bread. (Poem 1)
This collection, as the reader will note, is as much a journey into the world of the self as it is into the self of the world. Each untitled poem here ranges between three lines to twelve and becomes a hymn not just by virtue of its length or in being written by a fasting body but in being written by a searching soul. As one travels through them, there is a gradual building up of compassionate force, a slow summoning of the resources of the self:
Fazar: I begin my self-talk Iftar: Not sure where my self-talk ends. If you can map my face, Time and space fail. (Poem 9)
One is struck by this intense vigilance on the soul, this consistent observation of its workings, and this thorough and starkly honest ransacking of its contents to discover what it holds. Religion and humanity confront one another with determination in these hymns, the poet content to let the greater force win:
Amma would say, “You earn ten nekis for Offering water to a Rozgar.”
What would Amma say if she knew an entire country was cut off from water and food during Ramadan? (Poem 17)
It is interesting to note that the Islamic holy month, in this book, is spelt in all its three major variants: Ramadan, Ramzan and Ramjan, pointing to the plural linguistic heritages of the Muslim community. However, what is assigned supreme value in these poems is not the ritualistic observation of fast but the profound spiritual experience that the month demands of its observers. The sharp interrogation of religion in the interests of humanity concludes, in this collection, with a complete subservience of the former to the latter. Between the first hymn and the last, the book covers a dense journey—physical, political, civilisational and human. There is no indignation in these poems, no overt moralising and no despair whatsoever. The book does not grieve an unliveable world or express helpless anger over its injustices. If anything, each of these thirty poems is a testimony to the spirit of human courage and endurance, its pace and measure acquired from a deep spiritual anchoring in the principles of humanity beyond religion:
I thought I know all my suras by heart. now, each verse is a stranger and, asks a hundred questions. (Poem 5)
If Afsar’s first collection of poems Evening with a Sufi sought to view the world through the Sufi gaze of oneness, these poems in Fasting Hymns seek to experience that oneness in the flesh and in the spirit through bonds of connection and empathy that the act of fasting fosters in the human body and soul. In Precarious Life: The Powers of Mourning and Violence, Judith Butler talks about the “public dimension” of the body: “Constituted as a social phenomenon in the public sphere, my body is and is not mine. Given over from the start to the world of others, it bears their imprint, is formed within the crucible of social life; only later, and with some uncertainty, do I lay claim to my body as my own, if, in fact, I ever do.”
For Butler, the fact of physical vulnerability makes the body a shared public space, connected and accessible to others. This fact of vulnerability is also the focal point of Fasting Hymns that transforms blood into bread and vice-versa. Afsar reminds us how we pay for everything with the currency of the body—with hunger, disease, guilt, grief and how it is the body that ties us to each other in unalienable ways so that each one of us is equally vulnerable to the violence of hunger:
Yes, When I speak about the bread of Ramzan I also speak about the Blood of Muharram Bread and blood are never Separate in my world. (Poem 10)
Fasting Hymns is a distilled collection. There is nothing extraneous here in terms of either thought or language. The simplicity of diction in these poems makes for their steady luminosity–a subdued but patient burning that consistently lights up the fallible. While Evening with a Sufi was a translation from Afsar Mohhamad’s original poems in Telugu into English, this bilingual collection, born in English, has been expertly translated into Telugu by P. Srinivas Goud as Upavaasa Padyaalu, the very translation of ‘roza’ into ‘upavaasa’ bridging the aesthetic and ideological disparities between languages, cultures, and religions:
More than a hundred dishes Compete in a political iftar.
I walk into a muhalla.
I see an empty plate and a hungry face everywhere. (Poem 15)
While fasting, in general, might mean only the forgoing of food, the fasting during Ramadan is also a potent historical reminder of the scarcity of water and of thirst. While this collection offers rich food for thought, there is a grace to the poems that reminds one of water flowing from a tilted pitcher. A majesty of vision marks this collection along with a deep sense of personal responsibility to be accountable for the world and to account it, making this book both an intense soul-searching as well as an unsparing statement on things found.
At the day’s end Fasting Hymns brings both the calm of twilight and the restlessness of days to come–a restlessness that can be overcome only by the courage to struggle ceaselessly against undermining forces and, if necessary, alone.
Basudhara Roy teaches English at Karim City College affiliated to Kolhan University, Chaibasa. Author of three collections of poems, her latest work has been featured in EPW, The Pine Cone Review, Live Wire, Lucy Writers Platform, Setu and The Aleph Review among others.
.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Afsar Mohammad teaches at the University of Pennsylvania, and he has published five volumes of poetry in Telugu. He has published a monograph with the Oxford University Press titled, The Festival of Pirs: Popular Islam and Shared Devotion in South India. His Remaking History: 1948 Police Action and the Muslims of Hyderabad, has been published from Cambridge University Press. His first poetry collection was Evening with a Sufi: Selected Poems. These poems are from his second collection, Fasting Hymns, which has been translated to Telugu by P Srinivas Goud as Upavaasa Padyaalu. You can read a review of the book by clicking here.
.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Chintu, a fifth-grader, was known for his intelligence beyond his years. Every day, he walked a mile to school by himself. When his parents offered to accompany him, he confidently replied, “I can go by myself. I’m grown up now.” Since their village, Seethanagaram, was a small town, there wasn’t much fear of children being abducted or harmed, so his parents didn’t object.
One day, Chintu woke up early and set out for school earlier than usual. He packed a small spade, a water bottle, and his books into his schoolbag and slung it over his shoulder.
His mother, who had been observing him, asked, “Why are you leaving so early? There’s still time for school.”
“I have some work, mother. I’ll tell you when I come back,” Chintu replied.
On his way to school, Chintu spotted some discarded mango seeds. He carefully picked out the good ones and walked a little further from the road. Using his small spade, he dug holes and buried the seeds. Then, he poured some water from his bottle over them.
As Chintu was about to leave, an old beggar woman sitting under a nearby tree called out, “Come here, boy.”
Chintu approached her and greeted her politely.
“I saw you planting those seeds. That’s a good deed. But who will water them every day?” she asked.
“I pass this way to school every day. I will water them,” Chintu replied.
While talking to the old woman, Chintu noticed she looked weak and was coughing frequently. Concerned, he asked, “Do you have a fever? Have you eaten anything?”
“I don’t have the strength to move. I haven’t gone anywhere and haven’t eaten anything either,” the old woman replied.
“Oh no, that’s not good,” said Chintu, opening his lunch box and offering her some food.
The old woman hesitated. “You’ll be hungry in school. Don’t worry about me, son. I’m used to this.”
“Don’t worry about me. My friends will share their food with me,” Chintu reassured her. He then gave her water to drink and asked some passersby to help take her to the hospital before heading to school.
After school, on his way back home, Chintu saw a small puppy being chased by a big dog. The puppy, terrified, ran in search of shelter, letting out pitiful cries. It squeezed through the gate of a house, but the house dog barked at it, causing it to retreat. The puppy then ran into an alley, where a pig scared it further. Not knowing what to do, the puppy let out a helpless whimper.
Seeing the puppy in distress, Chintu took out his spade and used it to chase away the big dog. He picked up the trembling puppy and comforted it, saying, “Don’t be scared. I chased it away.”
Just then, a woman from the house across the street came outside and noticed the puppy in Chintu’s arms. “Its mother died in an accident while crossing the road. You can take it home if you want to raise it,” she said.
Without a second thought, Chintu took the puppy home.
When Chintu’s mother saw him with the puppy, she frowned. “Why did you bring a puppy home? It will make a mess everywhere. Leave it where you found it.”
“Poor thing… its mother died, and a big dog and a pig were chasing it. It was so frightened. Let’s take care of it for a while. We can let it go later. First, give it some food and milk,” Chintu pleaded.
“You seem to be taking on more responsibilities than necessary. You should be focusing on school, not trying to act like a grown-up,” his mother scolded.
“But if everyone thought that way, who would help those in need? Grown-ups can’t always do everything, and if kids aren’t allowed to help either, then who will assist those in trouble? Remember when you asked me this morning where I was going early? Let me explain now. I heard my teacher say that many people throw away mango seeds after eating the fruit. He said they shouldn’t go to waste. So, I buried some seeds by the roadside, and I’ll water them every day. There was an old woman with a fever under a tree. I gave her my lunch, and she was so happy. She blessed me,” Chintu said, his eyes wide with excitement.
“Is that so? You did a good thing. Keep helping others whenever you can. I’ll get some food for the puppy. Don’t worry about it. We’ll take care of it for a while and then find it a good home,” his mother said kindly.
“Let’s do that. I didn’t tell you this morning because I thought you might scold me. But now I know you’re kind-hearted and will understand. From now on, I’ll tell you everything I plan to do,” Chintu promised.
“You’re my precious child,” his mother said, hugging him lovingly.
From Public Domain
Naramsetti Umamaheswararao has written more than a thousand stories, songs, and novels for children over 42 years. he has published 32 books. His novel, Anandalokam, received the Central Sahitya Akademi Award for children’s literature. He has received numerous awards and honours, including the Andhra Pradesh Government’s Distinguished Telugu Language Award and the Pratibha Award from Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University. He established the Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation and has been actively promoting children’s literature as its president.
.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Art by Salvador Dali (1904-1989). From Public Domain
A LOVE SONG IN THE BATTLEFIELD
1
we inhabit a battlefield, blood and bodies around. nothing to wrap except deadly weapons.
yet our songs are flowery hued in green as we dream a quiet solitude.
2
we walk along the rivers imagining an ocean at the end of our eyes, never knowing what connects a river and an ocean.
rivers end up in a desert and oceans fly into unknown skies,
as our gods and goddesses await immersion.
3
we devour sacred foods dance around all possible divinities, and share a hundred stories of joy or sadness that flow into our blood, seeping deep into the lower depths of the body.
4
we meet quite surprisingly at crossroads, embrace each other. we spread our arms to the horizon, all set for the day of lights and kites knowing fully well that we’re those little lamps left in the glowing river.
5
breathing next to the bombshells, limping around blood canals we still walk through huge utsav pandals, perform namaz amidst thousands of believers,
then, we vanish into our narrow lanes shutting down every innermost chord of the heart.
6
didn’t you see that me and you remain all alone on this day of lights and kites…
*Utsav – festive/festival
Afsar Mohammad teaches at the University of Pennsylvania, and he has published five volumes of poetry in Telugu. His English poetry collection is forthcoming. He has also published a monograph with the Oxford University Press titled, The Festival of Pirs: Popular Islam and Shared Devotion in South India. His current work, Remaking History: 1948 Police Action and the Muslims of Hyderabad, has been published from Cambridge University Press. His poetry collection, Evening with a Sufi, was published by Red River.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Borderless 