It is in danger, like a child playing beside a puddle.
“Hey! Hey! Watch out!” I cry out in alarm,
but the dragonfly pays no attention. Perhaps dragonflies have no ears.
hlwha Choi is a South Korean poet. He has published multiple poetry collections, such as Until the Time When Our Love will Flourish, The Color of Time, His Song and The Last Rehearsal.
.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
The Cold War of Sadanand Borse, translated from Marathi by Jerry Pinto, was originally published as Sheetyuddha Sadanand in the 1980s. Written by Shyam Manohar, the work is considered writer’s noteworthy contribution to modern Marathi literature. A deceptively slim novel, it packs much in its exploration of ordinary lives of ordinary people. Comic yet unsettling, the novel, set within the world of Maharashtrian middle-class, deals with the ‘cold war’ of everyday existence, their struggles, ambitions and anxieties.
Most of Shyam Manohar’s writing deals with the theme of ordinary existence. He is an author two collections of short stories, eight plays, nine novels, and a collection of speeches and critical articles. He has received numerous national and state awards for his works, including the Sahitya Akademi Award in 2010.
The novel begins with a scooter colliding with a funeral procession of a child on a sweltering afternoon. The chance incident results in an absurdly comic encounter. It triggers a chain of events which not only bewilders but keeps the reader on tenterhooks with its acute observations on the tensions which ripple through the aspirations of middle-class. Sadanand collides with Govind and Shrirang, who are the friends of the bereaved father and part of the young son’s funeral procession. As they try to extract an apology from Sadanand, the subsequent events turn his world upside down.
Although the book centres around Sadanand Borse, whose recent one lakh lottery win has made him both suspicious and nervous, the author explores the anxieties of middle-class respectability through the reactions of his pregnant wife Urmila and his immediate neighbours in the aftermath of the incident. With Govind and Shrirang constantly at their door, an atmosphere of latent conflict (as suggested by the title) sets in, and Sadanand’s wife, his neighbours and acquaintances all become participants in a discreet struggle for recognition and influence. The subtle shifts in behaviour reflected in small acts of envy, admiration, cooperation, resentment and suspicion, which emerge when social hierarchies are disrupted, are captured effectively in the seemingly simple prose. The visual imagery of the prose takes the reader into a world echoing Sai Paranjype’s comedy movie ‘Katha’ (Story, 1982). The book revolves arounda similar satire on middle-class aspirations.
Neighbours watch each other closely, interpreting every gesture and decision as confirmation of success, failure, arrogance, or insecurity. Their discussions often seem harmless, yet underlying their narratives is the continuous evaluation of social norms, niceties and hierarchies. Through these characters, the author illustrates how middle-class communities function under companionable scrutiny. The characters aren’t reduced to moral categories. There are no villains in the usual sense. Even the most petty and self serving characters are portrayed perceptively.
The spare yet evocative prose also takes the reader into routine spaces like streets, hospitals, and neighbourhood gatherings where broader questions of morality are enacted. Satire also hinges around the ethics of institutions like hospitals and police stations, where greed or power takes precedence over morality.
The Cold War of Sadanand Borse is a work of remarkable intelligence and restraint. Shyam Manohar brilliantly captures the quiet conflicts that shape ordinary lives. The Cold War thus becomes a condition of social existence itself—a state of constant, low-intensity conflict hidden under outward courtesy.
Jerry Pinto’s brilliant translation of this Marathi work by Shyam Manohar succeeds in capturing the quiet comic energy and perhaps even the tone and precision of the original work. This novel is a must read for its sheer energy, fun and its precise portrayal of the middle-class.
Rakhi Dalal is an educator by profession. When not working, she can usually be found reading books or writing about reading them. She writes at https://rakhidalal.blogspot.com/ .
.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
When the meeting finally got over, instead of staying back for small talk as was usual, Ashwini excused herself and returned to her office. Closing the door, she called her doctor. Her clinic opened at nine in the morning. It must be really crowded by now. The five minutes that Ashwini had to spend while on hold, listening to pharmaceutical advertisements on the phone, felt like a couple of hours. Eventually Melissa, the doctor’s secretary, came on the line.
‘Why do you need the appointment?’
Though she knew the question was not asked merely as a courtesy – the secretary needed to know the reason in order to decide when she might be accommodated in the doctor’s schedule – Ashwini felt a flicker of irritation.
‘Let the doctor take a look, Ashwini, and decide the rest after examining the lump,’ Melissa said. ‘We are closed on Wednesdays and Fridays. Can you be here on Thursday at 10 am? Otherwise, we can see you next week.’
The Swedish clients had come for a week. Ashwini had to go along with them to the site on Thursday. The city officials and the engineer from the electricity department too would be present. The electricity department had to assess the project’s feasibility and determine its requirements. Once that was cleared, the city would grant a permit for the construction of the building. The time of the site visit had been fixed in advance; the visit had to be made with the client present.
Ashwini glanced at the calendar on her phone and asked, ‘Can you give me an appointment for next Tuesday? In the afternoon?’
The secretary she could.
Ashwini was never flippant when it came to taking leave. She could not allow her leave to come in the way of meeting the requirements of clients from abroad. A lot of care had to be paid to the project in the initial stages. Both the clients’ demands and the company’s terms had to be firmed up without any ambiguity. Everything had to be recorded; all the documents prepared and sent to the lawyer’s office. Only after the sponsors of both sides and their lawyers signed the contract could the project be handed over to the workers. Once that was done, all it required was supervision, to ensure everything was done as per the signed agreements. The slightest mistake in the contract could cause her company a loss of millions of dollars. The bosses had no time to go through the fine print or to separate the wheat from the chaff. Ashwini had to be their eyes, ears and brain. That was where her victory lay.
‘Meticulous… Very detail-oriented.’
Ashwini knew this description in the performance review was both a forewarning and a precondition. The contracts that Ashwini drew up with utmost care had no room for mistakes. She reviewed every sentence and every word, scrutinized them from every conceivable angle and made copious notes. That was why whenever contracts for major projects had to be prepared, the Director and the Vice President called Ashwini. The managers could handle the execution of ordinary projects.
Ashwini had to review, analyse and explain many things to Octavian and Rick before they left on Friday. Compromises were best struck at face-to-face meetings. Only after every loophole had been identified and plugged could the work formally commence. There were tasks to be completed in summer. The business people from Sweden demanded that a grand inauguration be organized in October. For the key to be handed over at the scheduled time, everything had to be in place by then.
But the winter season was unpredictable. With no clear sense of how much snow would fall or how cold the air would grow, it was difficult to plan the exterior work. Work on interior could begin only when the walls were in place. And amid the blueprints of the building and the careful plans of the project, an unanticipated grain of rice had arisen to disturb her design.
Octavian spoke with a thick Swedish accent. His sentences were peppered with the ‘a’ sound.
‘You can…a…bring the draft…a…a…in the…a…’
The ladies at the office found it very amusing. They lisped romantically. When he said the word ‘confrontation’ with a rounded ‘o’ sound, they mimicked him. They were charmed by the blue eyes and twenty-four-carat golden hair.
‘We need details of the entrance area…’
Ashwini spoke at the next meeting of the day in order to show that she was not inattentive. All eyes were focused on her. Each and every brick, rebar and even dollar had to go strictly by her project plan. But the dead words remained suspended in the air.
Octavian stared into Ashwini’s eyes. The lady did not smile or show coyness or fall for his golden hair, blue eyes and peculiar English. Was it possible to see her hidden intelligence through her eyes? Could the Director have been wrong? Hard to think so! Does she have an ace up her sleeve or will she sink without a trace?
The ladies in the office were not very impressed by Rick who accompanied Octavian. With his black hair and brown eyes, he seemed American. There were no giggles, no chuckles, no ‘Tee-hee’ for a man with an ordinary name like ‘Rick’.
The rosewood table in the conference room stood on its four legs, enduring instructions, discussions, negotiations, sorting-out, firming-up, agreements and compromises. Without revealing any feelings, it suffered all that weight, and concealed all the secrets.
Ashwini tried to yell at and send away the cat that was rubbing against her legs under the table.
I’ve never liked cats.
Need a holiday, sir.
Granting my sorrows a holiday, I hired a room in heaven.
Not to hold converse with alcohol.
That’s not a bad idea though.
I have fixed an appointment. An appointment with my problems.
At exactly five in the evening, Ashwini left her office. Ever since Keerthana moved to her university residence, Ashwini had never felt compelled to be home at a regular hour.
ABOUT THE BOOK
Ashwini Ram is a successful engineer in Canada. She has a good job, a loving husband and daughter, and a carefully planned life. Then, one snow-choked winter day, she discovers a tiny lump in her right breast.
What follows is a journey she never expected to take: doctor’s visits, tests, the shock of diagnosis, surgery, chemotherapy, radiation. Her body changes. Her moods change. Her husband retreats into a silence she cannot reach, her daughter grows distant in the demands of her medical studies, and even friends who once couldn’t do without her now appear to be keeping their distance. Ashwini’s thoughts spiral in directions she cannot always control as fear, anger, denial, loneliness, imaginary friends and dark humour take turns shaping her empty days.
Set against the cold landscapes of Canada and the quiet routines of immigrant life, Snowed Under captures the emotional reality of living with cancer—the waiting, the medical procedures, the stigma that surrounds the illness and the strain it places on the closest relationships.
First published as Manjil Oruval, this is not just a story about disease, but about the mind under pressure, the body under siege, and the complicated—sometimes fragile—will to live. Radhika P. Menon’s sensitive English translation brings this powerful and unusual Malayalam novel to a wider readership.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Nirmala Thomas is the most widely read Malayalam writer based in Canada. In 2011, she received the ‘Best Short Story Collection’ award for writers living outside India from the Government of Kerala. She has been a member of the Toronto Film Festival, the Writers’ Union of Canada, GritLit Canada, the Hamilton Media Advisory Council and the Advisory Committee for Immigrants and Refugees.
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
Radhika P. Menon is an award-winning translator who has translated several works from Malayalam to English, including K. Madhavan’s On the Banks of the Tejaswini, Devaki Nilayangode’s Antharjanam, S.K. Pottekkatt’s Tales of Athiranippadam, and K.K. Kochu’s Dalithan.
.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Title: Wajid Ali Shah: A Cultural and Literary Legacy
Author: Kaukub Talat Quder Sajjad Ali Meerza
TranslatedfromUrdu byTalat Fatima
Publisher: Hachette India
The late Dr Kaukub Quder Sajjad Ali Meerza’s study of Wajid Ali Shah is far more than a conventional biography. It is an act of historical recovery, a painstaking attempt to rescue one of nineteenth-century India’s most misunderstood figures from the distortions of colonial historiography. His book has been translated from Urdu by Talat Fatima, the great-great grand daughter of Wajid Ali Shah and Hazrat Begum and brought out as Wajid Ali Shah: A Cultural and Literary Legacy recently.
For generations, Wajid Ali Shah has survived in public memory largely as the indolent aesthete who lost his kingdom to the British while immersing himself in music, dance, and courtly pleasures. Dr Meerza’s deeply researched work dismantles this simplistic caricature and restores before the reader a ruler of extraordinary artistic imagination, intellectual depth, and cultural sophistication.
What makes this volume particularly compelling is the sheer breadth of its archival engagement. Drawing upon rare manuscripts, personal letters, poetic compositions, and forgotten historical documents, Dr Meerza reconstructs not merely the life of a king but the cultural ecology of nineteenth-century Lucknow.
The book vividly captures the refinement of Awadhi court culture at a moment when colonial expansion sought to undermine and delegitimise indigenous centres of power and creativity. Through meticulous scholarship, the author demonstrates that Wajid Ali Shah was not a passive dreamer detached from governance, but a prolific poet, dramatist, composer, patron, and innovator who consciously shaped the artistic identity of his kingdom.
The chapters dealing with Wajid Ali Shah’s literary contributions are among the most illuminating. His poetic works, especially Sabatul Quloob, emerge not as ornamental exercises in royal vanity but as deeply emotional meditations on exile, loss, devotion, and memory. Equally fascinating is the discussion of the ‘Shahi Rahas’, the nawab’s theatrical experiments that blended music, dance, costume, and storytelling into forms that anticipated modern performance traditions.
Dr Meerza carefully situates these innovations within the broader evolution of Urdu literary and theatrical culture, making a persuasive case for Wajid Ali Shah’s centrality in the development of North Indian artistic traditions.
One of the biggest strengths of the book is its refusal to separate culture from politics. The British annexation of Awadh in 1856 is shown not merely as a political event but as an ideological campaign that required the systematic defamation of its ruler. Colonial narratives portrayed Wajid Ali Shah’s love for the arts as evidence of decadence and incompetence, thereby legitimising imperial intervention. Dr Meerza exposes the deeply political nature of these accusations and presents a more nuanced portrait of a ruler who attempted administrative reforms, maintained military discipline, and remained deeply connected to the cultural aspirations of his people.
The English translations by Dr Fatima deserves special appreciation. The prose retains scholarly precision while remaining accessible and elegant, allowing contemporary readers to engage with an important body of Urdu scholarship that may otherwise have remained confined to academic circles. Her translation also carries emotional resonance, extending a family legacy of preserving the memory of a much-maligned ancestor through intellectual rigour rather than sentimentality.
At nearly six hundred pages, the work is expansive and occasionally dense, yet its richness never feels excessive. Every chapter contributes to the larger project of historical correction. More importantly, the book invites readers to reconsider how colonial narratives continue to shape modern perceptions of Indian rulers and cultural figures.
Eventually, this is not simply a book about a dethroned nawab. It is a meditation on memory, power, art, and historical injustice. Dr Meerza succeeds brilliantly in restoring Wajid Ali Shah to his rightful place not merely as the tragic last ruler of Awadh, but as one of the great cultural visionaries of nineteenth-century India.
For anyone interested in Urdu literature, the history of Awadh, colonial politics, or the cultural life of India, this volume stands as an indispensable and deeply rewarding work of scholarship.
Bhaskar Parichha is a journalist and author of Cyclones in Odisha: Landfall, Wreckage and Resilience, Unbiased, No Strings Attached: Writings on Odisha and Biju Patnaik – A Political Biography. He lives in Bhubaneswar and writes bilingually. Besides writing for newspapers, he also reviews books on various media platforms.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Bulang Bidang worn by commonersGetam Budu worn by the learned Isa Kamari wearing the sejantak (Malay headgears). Photo provided by the author
THE KRIS
Heppp!
Hold tight the hilt of faith. Insert the base pin of endeavour into the hollow of destiny. Adorn the ring with carvings of identity. Gild the heart with gold on the transverse base piece. Welcome the strong spirit on the elephant’s trunk. Ensure the side finials are neat, although spiky. Meditate on the rejuvenated fallen tree at the base of intention. Sprinkle spilled rice grains on life’s damascene. Complete the trio pattern with golden showers. Dance in the rhythm of odd waves. Honour loyalty of the blade on the forehead. Make sure the thrust is sharp on target. Once the blade is drawn out, the task must be accomplished. Adorn the self’s sheath with morality. Cleanse the rust of misdeeds with lime. Accompany every move with the fragrance of perfume. Warm up intuition with smoke from the freshness of incense. Slip the calling of the motherland at the waist.
Heppp!
It is unforgivable for the warrior to surrender before the fight. It is not death before its time. Mantras of faith and honour will always be revered, will always be upheld.
Ciiiss! Come, forward!
THE SEJANTAK (Traditional Headgear)
Aduhai, hai, hai, hai!
The head is a guard, the head is a warrior, the head is a seat of kingdom, the head is a treasury of culture, knowledge, and identity. It’s only right to uphold it. It’s only proper to revere it.
Aduhai, hai, hai, hai!
A piece of cloth to block the sun, woven from thread to absorb perspiration, tied in accordance with locality, decorated in accordance with tradition.
Aduhai, hai, hai, hai!
Bulang Bidang is simple in readiness. Bugis Tak Balik walks alone. The Eagle Slices The Sky with might. The Rooster unsheathes its spurs. The Young Admiral conquers the ocean. The Getam Budu is wise and intelligent.
Aduhai, hai, hai, hai!
Although humans are equal, the head determines the fold and pattern of adornment. It elevates the have-nots to the haves, removes the yearns of the haves from the have-nots. The head shines in resplendence, pulsates in the veins.
Aduhai, hai, hai, hai!
The setanjak narrates: The Malay has a place. The Malay has a tradition. He moves forward with confidence, acts with wisdom, the intuitive who and what the self is.
Aduhai, hai, hai, hai! Beta Dendam Tak Sudah (This Never-ending Feud)
IRON
The origin of iron is not iron. Iron comes from the word. The word comes from Hu! Iron remains as iron without forging. The forging begins in fire. The fire melts the hardness of metal. The metal is folded and hit repeatedly, in layers, sieving the pure. It needs the wild rage of fire, knocks upon knocks.
At last, the iron tells its tale in the reveal of the damascene patterns. The blade is dipped into water. Ciiiiiiss! Ciiiiiiss! Ciiiiiiss! Aspirations rise as steam, penetrate seven layers of air.
The origin of iron is not iron. Iron comes from Hu!
Only the expert smith knows how to select the best iron ore. Only the brave smith dares to befriend the fire. Only the knowledgeable smith forms beautiful and beneficial damascene patterns. The inheritance returns to its owner. The knight returns to the other world.
Hu! Hu! Hu! Ciiiiiiss!
THE ROUTE
Given the shortest route that is clear and beautiful, you procrastinate from valley to valley.
Although painful, slowly but surely, I will scrape all meanings of Beauty except for Truth.
Bugis Tak Balik — Malay headgear worn by warriors. From Public Domain
Isa Kamari has written 12 novels, 3 collections of poetry, a collection of short stories, a book of essays on Singapore Malay poetry, a collection of theatre scripts and lyrics of 3 music albums, all in Malay. His novels have been translated into English, Turkish, Urdu, Arabic, Indonesian, Jawi, Russian, French, Spanish, Korean, Azerbaijan and Mandarin. Several of his essays and selected poems have been translated into English. Isa was conferred the S.E.A Write Award from Thailand (2006), the Singapore Cultural Medallion (2007), the Anugerah Tun Seri Lanang (2009) from the Singapore Malay Language Council, and the Mastera Literary Award (2018) from Brunei Darussalam.
He obtained a BArch (Hons) from the National University of Singapore in 1989, an MPhil (Malay Letters) from Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia in 2008 and is currently pursuing a PhD programme at the Academy of Islamic Studies, Univeristi Malaya. His area of research is on the problem of alienation and the practice of firasat (spiritual intuition) in selected Singapore Malay novels.
The Lost Mantras is a collection that blends spirituality, Malay cultural heritage, and universal human experience. First published as part of Menyap Cinta (Love Greetings, 2022, Nuha Books KL), these poems are like a bridge between mysticism and everyday life, where traditional images (betel, jasmine, kris[1], oil lamps, setanjak[2]) are woven with Qur’anic echoes, prayers, and existential questioning. The collection carries a Sufi resonance—always circling back to longing, humility, surrender, and beauty as signs of God. The poems are not only lyrical but also function as cultural memory: they preserve Malay traditions, communal practices, and village life, while situating them in a cosmic framework of faith, sin, and redemption. The use of Malay customs, rituals, and objects is powerful: it asserts that spirituality is not abstract but embedded in heritage. This makes the collection uniquely Southeast Asian despite its universal in appeal.
Title: No. 1 Akashganga Lane: The First Novel about the Gig Workers of Kolkata
Author: Ashoke Mukhopadhyay
Translation from Bengali by Zenith Roy
Publisher: Niyogi Books
No. 1 Akashganga Lane: The First Novel about the Gig Workers of Kolkata by Ashoke Mukhopadhyay, translated with sensitivity and nuance by Zenith Roy, is a strikingly contemporary novel that brings into sharp focus the precarious lives of urban gig workers. Set against the pulsating yet indifferent backdrop of Kolkata, the novel explores a world that is at once hyper-connected and profoundly isolating.
At the heart of the narrative is Sriman, a food delivery worker whose life is defined by anonymity and transience. He delivers meals to strangers, navigating the city’s labyrinthine streets, yet remains invisible within the very system he sustains. Mukhopadhyay captures this paradox with quiet precision: Sriman’s labour is essential, but his existence is expendable. The gig economy, as portrayed in the novel, demands efficiency, obedience, and silence—qualities that gradually erode individuality and agency.
Equally compelling is the character of Mrittika Sen, a bike taxi driver whose experiences foreground the gendered dimensions of gig work. Through her, the novel examines the additional vulnerabilities faced by women in an already unstable ecosystem. The constant threat of being “logged out”—a chillingly impersonal metaphor for economic erasure—hangs over her life. Mukhopadhyay does not sensationalise her struggles; instead, he presents them with restraint, allowing their quiet intensity to resonate.
What elevates No. 1 Akashganga Lane beyond a social-realist narrative is its imaginative and philosophical layer. The titular word, Akashganga, is a century-old house and serves as a refuge, both literal and symbolic. Within its walls resides Bishan Basu, a figure who introduces Sriman, Mrittika, and others to the stars. This shift from the immediacy of urban struggle to the vastness of the cosmos is one of the novel’s most poignant devices. It offers a counterpoint to the claustrophobia of gig work, suggesting that even in the most constrained lives, there exists a yearning for transcendence.
The recurring motif of the stars and the speculative question—whether these workers might one day need another planet to call home—imbues the narrative with a subtle dystopian edge. It reflects not only ecological anxieties but also a deeper sense of displacement. The idea that gig workers might carry their labour into another world is both darkly humorous and profoundly unsettling, underscoring the inescapability of systemic exploitation.
Mukhopadhyay’s Bengali prose, as rendered in English by Roy, is measured and evocative. The translation deserves particular commendation for retaining the cultural texture of the original while ensuring readability for a wider audience. Kolkata itself emerges as a character—its rhythms, inequalities, and fleeting solidarities shaping the lives of those who inhabit it. The author’s background in documenting the city’s social history is evident in the authenticity of detail and atmosphere.
The novel also succeeds in capturing the fragile solidarities that emerge among gig workers. Friendships, though often transient, provide moments of warmth and resistance. The shared experiences of precarity create a sense of community, however fleeting. Akashganga becomes a space where these fragmented lives intersect, offering not solutions but solace.
No. 1 Akashganga Lane is a timely and thought-provoking novel that captures the human cost of the gig economy with empathy and insight. Through its blend of social realism and philosophical reflection, it offers a nuanced portrait of contemporary urban life.
Ashoke Mukhopadhyay has crafted a narrative that is both rooted in the specifics of Kolkata and resonant with global relevance, while Zenith Roy ensures that its voice travels beyond linguistic boundaries. The result is a work that lingers, prompting readers to look more closely at the invisible lives that sustain modern cities.
.
Bhaskar Parichha is a journalist and author of Cyclones in Odisha: Landfall, Wreckage and Resilience, Unbiased, No Strings Attached: Writings on Odisha and Biju Patnaik – A Political Biography. He lives in Bhubaneswar and writes bilingually. Besides writing for newspapers, he also reviews books on various media platforms.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Nazrul’s lyrics of Mor Priya Hobe Eso Rani (My Sweetheart, Be My Queen) has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam
From Public Domain
MY SWEETHEART, BE MY QUEEN
My sweetheart, be my queen! Let me make a garland of stars for your chignon. Dear girl, your ears I’ll adorn With the spring moon’s third visitation. Your throat, dear girl, I’ll deck with a pair of dangling swans. I’ll make a ribbon too to tie your cloud-coloured disheveled hair Out of the lightening in the spring moon’s third visitation! A paste blended from moonlight and sandalwood Will be your body’s balm. The red of the rainbow Will be the lac-dye used to color your feet The seven notes of my song will compose Your bridal chamber’s decor While my muse’s bulbul bird will sing a song for you— in full-throated ease!
Born in united Bengal, long before the Partition, Kazi Nazrul Islam(1899-1976) was known as the Bidrohi Kobi, or “rebel poet”. Nazrul is now regarded as the national poet of Bangladesh though he continues a revered name in the Indian subcontinent. In addition to his prose and poetry, Nazrul wrote about 4000 songs.
Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib (1797-1869), often considered a difficult poet by critics, offers both nuggets of philosophical wisdom and sparkling wit in his poetry. He wrote in both Persian and Urdu, but it is his Urdu poetry which has bestowed iconic status on the poet. Presenting a blend of classicism and modernism, a deceptive lucidity and a visible obscurity, playful naughtiness and transcendental raptures and above all an endearing humanism, Ghalib has a range which remains unsurpassed in Urdu poetry. His ghazals always open new possibilities of meaning and interpretation. An important poet in the court of Bahadur Shah Zafar and a mentor of Sir Syed Ahmad Khan, Ghalib has inspired and influenced almost all later Urdu poets.
Anisur Rahman’s The Essential Ghalib is a welcome addition to many already existing translations and selections of Ghalib’s poetry. But such is the appeal of Ghalib’s verse that he continues to be read, loved and celebrated and there remains a scope for new books on his poetry, especially in English for a wider readership. In this regard Surinder Deol’s arduous task of translating Gopichand Narang’s book as Ghalib: InnovativeMeanings and the Ingenious Mind, a study using insights of Indian aesthetics, and Maaz Bin Bilal’s excellent English translation of Ghalib’s famous masnavi Chiragh-e-Dair as Temple Lamp: Verses onBanaras, the best possible paean to the holy city,are admirable efforts. Other better- known academics like Khurshidul Islam and Ralph Russell, translators and editors, Frances W. Pritchett, to whom Rahman dedicates his book, Mehr Afshan Farooqi, who endorses Rahman’s book, have devoted a lifetime to present Ghalib before Anglophone readers.
Anisur Rahman knows that translating all of Ghalib’s ghazals can be daunting, a task which was attempted recently by Najib Jung. However, as Rahman has not only made a selection of 200 shers[1] of Ghalib, but has also written an insightful commentary on each of them. Admitting that making a selection is always a subjective choice, Rahman has tried to represent Ghalib “in all his thematic and stylistic varieties” by developing his individual methodology, “a linguistic register and a pattern of rhyme and rhythm… that could represent Ghalib”. He also needed his “own diction with a certain echo, deciding on my number of syllables with certain weight and volume, determining the line breaks and their length to ensure their readability in translation, and finally approximating Ghalib’s tone and voice which differed from verse to verse”. Another criterion that he has followed is to select verses which were “translatable ones”, implying that a lot of Ghalib presents an insurmountable challenges for translators.
A short Introduction presenting important facts of Ghalib’s life and times, which of course have been documented in a number of books, provides a context to appreciate fully the selection and elucidation of verses that follow. A brief timeline of Ghalib’s life and works presents information in a capsule form helping the reader further.
A distinctive aspect of The Essential Ghalib is its neat and precise organization of verses and their interpretation. A two-line verse extract from a ghazal of Ghalib, which obviously can have an independent existence because of the very nature of the ghazal form, appears in Urdu and Devanagari script on the left side of the page. The page also carries a glossary of the difficult Urdu words and the English translation of the verse. On the right side of the book, the commentary of the verse explains its most obvious meaning as well as the philosophical and figurative layers hidden in the two lines. In other words, like a couplet of a ghazal, each page of the book also stands independently in the book. With his long experience as a university teacher of English poetry, Rahman has seen to it that his commentary of the couplet also does not go beyond a single page and yet it remains complete. A sequential reading of the book is not required, and the reader can open the book on any page, or savour it back and forth.
Rahman’s selection and translation includes the variety of emotions, tones and themes that Ghalib’s poetry offers. Ghalib’s wit can be seen in the following verse:
Maine chaaha thaa ke andoh-e vafaa se chhuuTuu. nvo sitamgarmire marne pe bhi raazii na huaa
I had wished to get rid of love’s grief and pain But that tyrant didn’t even let me die in bane
Ghalib had the rare talent to turn an often-thought idea into a fine poem:
Bas-ke dushvaar hai har kaam kaa aasaa.n honaa aadmi ko bhi mayassar nahii.n insaa.n honaa
It’s hard to make it easy; past man’s acumen Just as it is for a man to be a human
Rahman’s short commentary on each couplet is undoubtedly the most important feature of the book. He brings out many layers of meaning of the couplet in a clear and precise prose. Rahman knows that one way of reading poems is to read them in relation to other poems treating the same idea. In his commentary, Rahman often cites a verse from another poet not only to stress Ghalib’s influence on other poets but also to suggest the intertextual nature of poetic imagination. In the following verse Ghalib talks about the oppressive nature of the beloved:
ki mire qatl ke b’aad us ne jafaa se tauba haai us zuud-pashemaa.n kaa pashemaa.n honaa
She vowed not to be oppressive, after ravaging me Ah! Her repentance too soon! Ah! Her idiosyncrasy!
While explaining this verse, Rahman quotes Shahryar’s verse:
Ham ne to koii baat nikaalii nahinn.n Gham kii/vo zuud pashemaan pashemaan sa kyu.n hai.
(I didn’t utter anything sad/ Why does she look repentant {my translation])
At other places in the book, Rahman quotes the relevant verses of Sheikh Ibrahin Zauq, Siraj Aurangabadi, Firaq Gorakhpuri, Faiz Ahmad Faiz, Munir Niyazi and Parveen Shakir to show the resonance of Ghalib’s poetry.
Such is the beauty of Urdu poetry, of Ghalib’s in particular, that it never loses its relevance and can be cited to refer to many contemporary issues and controversies while Ghalib’s irreverence and “note of impudence” in referring to angels is beautifully captured by the following verse:
pakre jaate hai.n farishto.n ke likhe per naahaq aadmi koii hamaaraa dam-e tahrir bhi thaa
I am unjustly caught for what the angels Recorded of me Was there someone for me to see What they reported of me
Very proud of his poetry, Ghalib was never known for his modesty. Paradoxically, he can sound both vain and self-deprecating:
Ye masaail e tasavvuf ye tiara bayaan ghali tujhe ham valii samajhte jo na baada khvaar hotaa
There mystical matters, these sparkles You bring me, Ghalib If not a boozer, I would take you For a saint, Saahib
Simple but not simplistic, scholarly but interesting, The Essential Ghalib is a good introduction to Ghalib’s poetry especially for a beginner.
Mohammad Asim Siddiqui, a professor of English at Aligarh Muslim University, is the author of Muslim Identity in Hindi Cinema: Poetics and Politics of Genre and Representation (Routledge 2025).
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
By Hamiruddin Middya: Translated from Bengali by V. Ramaswamy
Babu, I am merely a poor Santhal. Please don’t take offence at anything I say. After all, we people who belong to the forest have always been losing. We are day labourers. We neither have nice houses nor do we possess any cultivable land.
Rangakul, Kusumkanali, Nabindanga and Mohulboni were all small Adivasi villages in the forest. Nearby were farmers, and people of the Ghosh, Mahato and Sinha communities. All the land belongs to them. We gaze at the sky in the hope of rain and cultivate a single crop. Some people have taken up the timber business and become rich and arrogant overnight. Why would they care about farming! It’s us who want to farm the land. A one-third share to the landlord, or else a monetary arrangement. We are poor folk, where will we get so much money! So, we cultivate the land on a crop sharing crop basis. But can one survive the whole year with that? The moment there’s no more rice for the cooking pot, we queue up beside the metalled road, wave out to any bus going eastward and get on board. After all, there’s no shortage of jobs there. With water from the canal available there, the fields yield golden paddy twice a year. By the grace of Marang Buru, all we want is to work our bodies so that we can feed our bellies.
When water is scarce at the edge of the forest where we live, famine looms. What’s new about that!
Singh babu is the big warehouse keeper here. He’s in the timber business. His house is at the fringe of the forest, across the railway line. It’s not a house but a fortress. He has done well in business with the help of his sons. Our men and women carry dry wood gathered from the forest to the babu’s warehouse across the railway bridge. He weighs our bundles and buys them. Even if the price is higher in the marketplace, who wants to go there if you have someone close by!
I cultivate a bigha-and-a-half of the babu’s land. It’s his warehouse that Lokha’s Ma carries wood to. There was a terrible drought this year. Fields, pastures and ponds were all parched, gasping for water. The paddy harvest was not good. The stalks were not tall. Just like a mother’s milk dries up if she is unable to eat, it’s the same with the ears of paddy. What will we eat the whole year? An unpared bamboo in the arse! How will I go to the babu and tell him?
I got the opportunity. Lokha set a trap somewhere and caught a waterhen. I told him, “Give me the bird, son. Let me give it to the babu.”
But Lokha did not want to part with it. “Why should I give it just like that?”
I said, “It’s not just like that, son. I have to make the babu happy, he’s very fond of bird meat. After all, we survive by cultivating his land.”
Who knows what Lokha thought but he did not argue any more.
I went with the bird at dusk. Singh babu was sitting with his son on a platform under the mango tree in front of the warehouse, he was doing some calculations. As soon as he saw me, he exclaimed, “Arey[1] it’s Hansda! What’s that in your hand?”
I went close to the babu. The babu studied the bird and exclaimed, “Wow! You’ve brought a waterhen!”
The babu never called me Sanatan Hansda, only Hansda. I could see that he was very happy to get the waterhen. His middle son, Haru, took the bird from me and left. Their house, surrounded by walls, was just behind the warehouse. I sat down below the platform.
The babu asked, “Has the paddy been threshed?”
“Babu, that’s what I came to tell you about. All the paddy has been destroyed in the drought! After threshing the remaining stalks, I could only get six sacks of paddy.”
The babu’s face turned grave. He blurted out angrily, “What the hell are you saying, bastard! Six sacks? I went to the field and saw for myself, it was full of swaying stalks.”
“Yes, babu, it was like that then. But there was no rain in Magh[2]. The plants began to droop after that!” I pleaded with the babu.
“Enough of your nonsense! Haru will go tomorrow and see how it’s only six sacks. Don’t try to be cunning!”
“Sure, send him then, babu. I am not telling you lies.”
Haru didn’t come. The next day, Singh babu himself arrived in haste. He came in the middle of our festivities. I was anxious wondering where I would ask him to sit, and what I would feed him. All of us, men and women, drink hanriya [3]and dance. Ours is a small village. We can’t afford to buy a dhamsa or a madol. We had everything earlier, but they broke long ago. When the boys and girls of the village grow up and it’s time for them to get married, we get those drums on rent. During our festivals, the boys in the youth club play music on the mic. We dance to that. Seeing our song and dance, Singh babu later whispered to me, “Give me a glass of hanriya too. Let me try it. But mind it, don’t tell Haru!”
“Oh no, babu. Don’t worry about that. Have as much as you want.” I thought it was funny. The father drinks out of his son’s sight. After all, we have none of all that. Father and son drink together to their heart’s content.
Why were Singh babu’s eyes so bloodshot today? I was scared. I said to him, “Come, come babu. Come inside and sit comfortably.”
The babu said angrily, “I haven’t come to sit, Hansda. Show me the paddy quickly.”
So, I showed the babu the paddy. He looked at me sternly and asked, “You haven’t hidden it somewhere, have you?”
“No, no babu. I would never do something like that in my life,” I said, holding my ears with my hands. “Why don’t you ask someone?”
“Chandmani and Gona Murmu got a good harvest. What kind of farming are you doing?”
“They got a pump-set from somewhere and irrigated their fields twice. There’s a shallow tubewell in the field there.”
The babu was about to leave with a sullen face. I said to him, “Let us keep the crop this time, babu. It’s a meagre harvest. My family can survive for a few days with that. I’ll repay you next time.”
The babu came to a halt with a start. He lowered his voice, and said, “Why should you go without food – am I not there! You have a young wife at home. Send her to the warehouse in the evening. After all, you can’t send her when people are around!” And saying so, the babu left. There was a strange smile on his face. Seeing that smile, my chest heaved. What on earth did the babu say before he left! How could I send Lokha’s Ma to the warehouse with wood now?
2
There was a fair in the nearby village of Mohulbani. As the Shalui festival is not celebrated with much fanfare in our village, it’s to the fair in Mohulbani that everyone dresses up and goes. There’s a cockfight every year during this time. This year, I too was a hauchi. Someone who participates in a cockfight is called a hauchi. I had never put a cock to fight. But the idea of doing that during this year’s festival caught my fancy.
Lokha’s Ma had brought the rooster as a tiny chick from her father’s house. I saved it so many times from the jaws of wretched mongooses and civets. It was big now, and sparkling red in colour. It crowed, konk konkkor konk, in the semi-darkness of dawn. Hearing its crow, the birds on the trees then began chirping. It hovered around every hen in the village, all by itself. It walked with its chest puffed out, as if it was the king of the forest. If such a rooster could not fight, then why on earth was it born?
Lokha tugged at my lungi and demanded, “I’ll go too, Baba. Take me along with you to see the fair.”
Lokha’s Ma said, “Take him along. He’s my little boy. On a festival day, he’ll go to see the fair, he’ll eat jilapi[4], but no – what kind of a father are you!”
“All right. Come along then.”
Mustard flowers were in bloom in the fields. It was yellow everywhere, both on the lowlands and the uplands. After all, it was a festival of flowers now. Men and women, old and young, were walking to the fair along the narrow boundary ridge. Some raced along on bicycles on the red laterite road, ringing their bells, kring kring. Close to the forest was the field known as Bhangatila Maath, which was where the fair took place. Shops with captivating wares, flutes for children, toy drums. Such a variety of food items, telebhaja[5], jilapi. Earthen pots and utensils were selling somewhere under a tree canopy. Rows of bicycles and pick-up vans were elsewhere. An old Santhal man was going around selling bamboo flutes. He himself was rapt in the melody he was playing. There was a cloud of red dust. Girls and young men were walking around holding hands, disregarding the dust. The crowd at the fair was made up of people from all the nearby villages.
Was it only Santhals? No, babu folk too had come to have fun. Everyone was dressed in new clothes, looking their best. Girls had applied mahua oil on their hair and parted their hair, with wildflowers adorning their coiffure.
Hidden away from the fair, in a clearing inside the forest, there was a crowd of people. That’s where the cockfights took place. It used to take place in the fair ground itself earlier. But a few times, police vans had arrived and pulled down everything. It has moved its venue into the forest ever since. I went there with Lokha. Sal-wood poles had been planted, and the spot had been encircled with a rope. Everyone was standing around the rope, Some of them were hauchis, with roosters in their hands. Others had come only to watch.
I asked Lokha to stand under a tendu tree, and told him, “Don’t go anywhere, son. Just stand here and watch the cockfights. I have to find us an opponent.”
I was going around with my rooster, looking for an opponent, when a suited and booted babu with a camera on his shoulder pushed his way through the crowd. Everyone gaped at the man.
A few kaatkaars, those who tied blades to the roosters’ feet, had gone into the enclosure through the boundary rope. Seeing the babu, they said, “Hey babu, what business do you have here? You want to publicise the cockfight? Stop taking pictures, we warn you!”
The babu put his camera into his bag following the threat.
As I went around searching, who should I encounterbut Singh babu — a pleasure-seeking man indeed! He frequently participated in cockfights to indulge his fancy. From time to time, he also wagered money on the days of the weekly market. There was a spirited rooster in the babu’s hands. Seeing me, he said, “What’s up, Hansda, have you brought one too?”
I nodded my head, and said, “Yes, babu. I did it for fun.”
“But you’re in bad times! So how come you’re indulging your fancy?”
Seeing the rooster in my hand, the babu’s rooster stretched its neck, fluffed the feathers on its neck, and glared agitatedly. When I had told the babu about the six sacks of paddy, the babu had glared at me in the same way. My rooster’s eyes too emitted fire. They were a fine pair, but how could I tell the babu that! He was a well-known man, why would he agree to a cockfight with me?
The kaatkar Hiralal, from Panchal was nearby, tying blades toa rooster’stoes. Seeing our two roosters, he burst out, “The two make a fine pair! Why don’t you get them to fight?”
Had Hiralal lost his head or what! What’s this he was saying! Would someone like Singh babu agree to a cockfight with my rooster! I was a poor Santhal. I survived by farming the babu’s land. But I was astonished to hear the babu’s response.
“Hey Hansda! Are you willing?”
I replied hesitantly, “Whatever you wish, babu.”
Hiralal began tying blades to the two roosters’ toes. We didn’t call them blades. The blades were known as heter. Kaatkars had arrived to tie the heter to the toes of all the fighting roosters. After all, there were so many roosters for the cockfight! If there had been only one kaatkaar, it would be night by the time the contests were over.
The rooster belonging to Budhon Ghosh, the ration-dealer from Harindanga village, was fighting now with the one belonging to Fatik Ghosh from Panchal. There was a circle made with lime powder within the roped-in enclosure. The two roosters were made to face each other within the circle. The roosters in the hands of other cockfighters in the crowd raised their necks and crowed. The cockfight was going to be a lively one.
Man playing the DhamsaMan playing the MadolFrom Public Domain
Meanwhile, the beats of the dhamsa and madol came wafting from the fairground. Intoxicated with mahua[6]and hanriya, our young men and women were dancing in a circle, hand in hand. A tide of joy washed over the hills. The whole forest was in a state of intoxication with the drim drima drim beat.
Budhon Ghosh won the cockfight. The spectators clapped and whistled to congratulate him. Fatik’s defeated rooster was his now.
It was our turn next. Singh babu and I entered the roped enclosure. We held the tails of the two roosters and stood them face to face in the middle of the lime circle. Singh babu and I too were face to face. These weren’t roosters! They were like magnets drawn to iron. They could not be restrained, they kept pulling forward. As soon as the whistle blew, fweeeet, we released the roosters. The fight began. They flapped their wings, torn feathers flew into the air. Neither of them spared the other.
When the babu’s rooster was overcoming mine, the spectators applauded, and cried out, “Singh babu! Singh babu!” Again, when my rooster was beating the babu’s rooster, a few spectators behind me excitedly burst out, “Hansda! Hansda!”
I was witnessing another battle. After all, the two roosters weren’t roosters. They were Singh babu and me. We were down on our hands and knees, both of us had become roosters. We were in an unflinching face-off. Behind me were rows and rows of Santhal men and women, mothers, brothers and sisters, standing with bows and arrows, battle axes, and spears in their hands. And behind the babu were row upon row of diku, as outsiders were known.
I suddenly heard the Santhals cry out excitedly, ‘Sanatan! Sanatan!’ I realised I had lost my concentration. I saw that my brave rooster had pierced his blade into the breast of the babu’s rooster and felled it. I had won!
I rushed and picked up the babu’s rooster. It was mine according to the regulations. The kaatkaar too had to be paid for fixing the blades. There was no end to Lokha’s joy! The next fight had already begun.
Lokha’s Ma had forbidden me again and again. “Hey, what if this fully grown rooster loses? How about indulging yourself with food only at the festival instead?” But I paid her no heed. How happy Lokha’s Ma would be now!
But as soon as I glanced at Singh babu, I had a strange feeling. Why had his face turned so ashen? After all it was merely a battle between two roosters…
I felt no joy despite having won. What had I done, oh dear! I had beaten the babu. How could I take his rooster home and eat it?
I said to Lokha, “Go, my son. Go and give the rooster to the babu.”
Lokha asked me, “Are you very angry? We won! So why should I give it?”
What was Lokha saying! That we won? After all, we had never been able to win! We had been beaten time and again, my dear! Ever since some distant time. What had I done now, oh dear, by beating the babu! My eyes turned moist. I went with the rooster to the babu.
The babu did not say a single word to me.
I said, “Hey babu! Take this. Let your boys have a feast. I have one already!”
The babu said, “No, Hansda. I won’t take a beaten rooster home.”
Hearing that, I shook my head. The babu patted my shoulder and said, “Let’s see what happens next year.”
Hamiruddin Middya was born in 1997 in Ruppal, a remote village in Bankura district in West Bengal. Born in a marginal farmer’s family, he has been in agricultural fields and farming from his childhood. His passion for writing started from his school days. He has worked as a domestic helper, a migrant construction mason, and travelled to rural fairs to sell wares. Hamiruddin’s first story was published in the magazine Lagnausha in 2016. Since then, three collections of his short stories have been published, Azraeler Daak (2019), Mathrakha (2022), and Ponchisti Golpo (2025). The story collection, Mathrakha, received the Yuva Puraskar for 2023 from the Sahitya Akademi, India.
V. Ramaswamy took up translation following two decades of engagement in social activism for the rights of the labouring poor of Kolkata. Beginning with the iconic and experimental writer Subimal Misra, he then devoted himself to translating “voices from the margins”, both in fiction and nonfiction. Besides translating four volumes of Misra’s short fiction, Ramaswamy has translated Manoranjan Byapari, Adhir Biswas, Swati Guha, Mashiul Alam, Shahidul Zahir, Shahaduz Zaman and Ismail Darbesh, among others.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Poetry by Atta Shad: Translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch
Whether morning or eventide, dawn or twilight— what remains to be said of the rainbow and raincloud, of the scented breeze, of the beloved earth? The heart seems withdrawn from all.
The heart, a patient mendicant, feels and endures each rebuff. Desire wanders beneath the scorching sun, a traveler without a destination.
Night falls, (so we’ve heard). Day breaks, (so they claim). But who can tell of day and the night? Both are deemed dead now. Joy wraps itself in mourning’s cloak.
Love’s springtide carries the green pulse of bloom. Yet to slay hope, to shatter a vow, is a catastrophe enough for any age. Love and wrath are bound in a single knot.
In the mirror of dreams the world becomes a marketplace. And in that marketplace a shadow falls over translucent melodies of spring, over verdant meadows, over pearl-laden, swaying fields.
Eyes go blind. Ears turn deaf. Only wealth gleams, only riches glitter.
What remains to be said of the rainbow and raincloud, of the scented breeze, of the beloved earth?
In this marketplace you are for sale. So am I.
The heart, a patient mendicant feels and endures each rebuff. Desire wanders in the scorching sun, a traveler without a destination.
Atta Shad(1939-1997) is the most revered and cherished modern Balochi poet. He instilled a new spirit in the moribund body of modern Balochi poetry in the early 1950s when the latter was drastically paralysed by the influence of Persian and Urdu poetry. Atta Shad gave a new orientation to modern Balochi poetry by giving a formidable ground to the free verse, which also brought in its wake a chain of new themes and mode of expression hitherto untouched by Balochi poets. Apart from the popular motifs of love and romance, subjugation and suffering, freedom and liberty, life and its absurdities are a few recurrent themes which appear in Shad’s poetry. What sets Shad apart from the rest of Balochi poets is his subtle, metaphoric and symbolic approach while versifying socio-political themes. He seemed more concerned about the aesthetic sense of art than anything else.
Shad’s poetry anthologies include Roch Ger and Shap Sahaar Andem, which were later collected in a single anthology under the title Gulzameen, posthumously published by the Balochi Academy Quetta in 2015. The translated poem is from Gulzameen.
Fazal Baloch is a Balochi writer and translator. He has translated many Balochi poems and short stories into English. His translations have been featured in Pakistani Literature published by Pakistan Academy of Letters and in the form of books and anthologies. Fazal Baloch has the translation rights of Atta Shad from the publisher.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
