Tag: Translation

Categories
The Throne

Free Souls?

Translated by Isa Kamari from his own Malay novel

Flats at Ang Mo Kio in 1970s. From Public Domain
Chapter 3

Free souls
Wouldn’t be easily bored
By mentoring and demands
For it’s the stable self
That gives rise to liberation
And that’s called freedom 
It isn’t about release without aims
Just like city folks
Released from home or work
Wander aimlessly
At shopping malls
Seek excitement
From novelty and transience
It isn’t that Life
Doesn’t require variety
Or it isn’t that the soul
Doesn’t long for fun
It’s just that we who claim to be free
Are easily entrapped
In useless pettiness
That we spread
In the city
Without ever realising
That we haven’t returned
To the doors of our hearts
Although we’ve stepped afoot
Onto the house compound

Living in the flat at Ang Mo Kio was definitely different from the barracks. Our new house was clean and comfortable. We did not have to share the latrine and bathroom. The terrazzo floor made our house look modern, beautiful and sleek compared to the cement floor that was laid with rubber mats with many holes and tears.

Our flat was on the fourth floor that was serviced by a lift and staircase. Behind our block was a small lawn. There were several provision shops at the housing block in front of ours. So, it was convenient to shop for groceries. From the physical perspective, living in a flat had elevated the standard of living of our family. But it had its own pressures.

To support the needs of the family and children’s education both our parents had to earn a living. There were many maintenance and educational bills that had to be paid. Father still cycled to work but he had changed job as a mechanic at a factory that produced air-conditioning units at Kallang Basin. Our Mother started working as a housemaid at the neighbouring Teachers Estate.

Both our parents had to face the challenges of a new life and pinned their hopes that their children would do well in school. I managed to step into university while my two sisters passed their school examinations well. My fourth and youngest brothers also scored well in their results. It was only he who in secondary three[1] failed in his examinations miserably. Both our parents were shocked, disappointed and angry with him.

An argument ensued. Father slapped him until his cheeks were bruised. He swore vehemently and spat on the floor. We were shocked and bewildered by his crass behaviour. We did not expect it at all. We knew him to be gentle and quiet. He ran away from home and did not return for a week.

Fortunately, it was the school holidays. Therefore,  there was no problem created at school. Or, so we thought.

When school reopened, he refused to continue with his studies. We advised and coaxed him repeatedly, but he did not budge from his choice. Both our parents could do nothing and gave in to his stubbornness. He did not attend school anymore. His new habit was to roam aimlessly with his friends who lived at nearby blocks.

One night he returned home seemingly drunk and confused after going out the whole day. His eyes were bloodshot, and he vomited a few times. He rushed to his room and slept. He wrapped his body with a blanket although it was a warm night

The next morning Mother asked him to see a doctor, but he refused. He locked himself in the room. We noticed that his body trembled often. And he began to talk nonsense with a slurred voice.

It was at that moment that we realised that he was involved in drugs.

Our family was shaken. We did not know how this happened. We were clueless as to what to do next. Should we have reported him to the police? That would result in him being detained at a drug rehabilitation centre, DRC. Was it possible to give him treatment without reporting to the authorities? How could we do about this? See a doctor or healer? We were confused and anxious.

Both our parents kept asking how and where he had obtained money to purchase drugs which were expensive? Our Mother only gave him enough money for food and cigarettes.

The answer was revealed itself not long afterwards in a situation that broke our parents’ hearts. Our family was confronted with a disaster.

[1] Grade 9

Click here to access Chapter 1 of The Throne.

Click here to access Chapter 2 of The Throne.

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.

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

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

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Categories
Stories

Sótkál by Aslam Dostain

A physician by profession, Aslam Dostain is widely regarded as one of the prominent contemporary Balochi fiction writers. Although he has also written short stories, he is best known for his novels. To date, two of his novels have been published. The flexibility, fluency, and natural flow of language are among the most distinctive features of his novels. The passage under discussion is taken from his first novel, Sotkaal, which was first published in 2008 by Gaam Publications, Gwadar.

An excerpt from Aslam Dostan’s novel, Sótkál, been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch

Whenever Asumi spoke of Noddranzán, his words seemed to brim with longing. He was often found talking about the coast of Noddranzán.

Asumi was my cousin, and we were the same age. In the beginning, he was a shepherd like me, but later he began travelling with camel caravans and took up trading. He spoke so admiringly of the coast simply to tempt me and stir my curiosity.

As far back as I can remember, I had never been beyond Sótkál, except once. I have only a faint memory of it. My grandfather had taken me with him down to the coastal region to offer condolences. After that, my entire world was Sótkál. There was hardly anything in Sótkál that escaped my eyes. I knew where water could be found, where the trees and the shades rustled, where the ravines and gorges lay, and which areas were infested with ferocious wild beasts.

Grandfather used to say: “A shepherd who does not know his flock, its ways, and its temperament can never truly be a shepherd. And here, in rain and storms, to be unfamiliar with the temperament of the river that comes surging from the far reaches of Sótkál is to invite your own destruction.”

Grandfather had another story to tell. Once, a group of the British came here determined to find the source of the Sótkál River. Starting from here, they travelled northward, covering some eighteen manzil[1], but eventually grew exhausted and turned back. They said they had done everything they could, but they could not find its source. That is why only those who live along its banks truly understand the temperament of this river, and that, indeed, is the truth.

For as long as I can remember, my entire universe has been these sheep and goats. Grandfather said only this to me: “Ghulamuk, my son! This flock is yours now. You know what to do with it.”

I had no other work besides this. From dawn until I went to bed at night, I was occupied with the flock. Grandfather had, with great wisdom, kept me busy. It took me many years to understand that there could hardly be a greater calling than this.

Whether it was the scorching sun, the freezing winter rains and storms, or the hot, blistering winds of summer, I could find no rest. I was forever responsible for guarding and tending the flock: making sure that no goat fell into a ravine and broke its bones, that none wandered off and got lost, that no beast of prey carried one away, and that no goat drank all of its own milk.

By virtue of being a shepherd, I came to know every corner of the wilderness. Sometimes I would take the flock to the ravine of Kachól, sometimes to the Basshám Pass. At times I could be seen wandering with them through the desert of Mojén Dém, and at others in Masháni. But there was still one place in Sótkál that I had never taken the flock: Jinnani Jomp—The Mounds of the Jinns.”

Grandfather had strictly forbidden me from going there. “Ghulamuk, my child! You may go wherever you please in every corner of Sótkál, but never, ever turn towards the Mounds of the Jinns.”

We were allowed neither questions nor arguments. Whenever such a thing seemed about to arise, Grandfather would stop us before we could even finish speaking.We were always under his watchful eye.

“Don’t put your hands on your head, boy!”

“Don’t stand on the threshold. It is the time of sunset.”

“Straighten your slippers. They’re lying upside down.”

We always carried within us the fear that whatever we did, Grandfather would see it.

Except for one occasion, he had never actually beaten us. But threats, scolding, and warning us with nothing more than a look were part of his everyday manner.

God knows whether we had a guest that day or what the occasion was, but that day Grandfather slaughtered the hen with black-and-white feathers and had it cooked for lunch. We all sat down together for the meal. Everyone began to eat, but Asumi kept his hands to himself.

“What’s the matter, boy? Why aren’t you eating?” Grandfather asked.

“Grandpa, I don’t eat chicken,” Asumi replied.

“You don’t eat chicken? Why not?”

“I don’t eat chicken because chickens eat lizards.”

A look of disgust passed over everyone’s face, but no one said a word.

“So, chickens have only just started eating lizards, have they? They were eating lizards before you were born, and they’ll go on eating them long after you’re dead. Come on, start eating, and don’t talk such nonsense.”

“No, Grandpa. I don’t eat chickens that…”

Asumi had not even finished the sentence when a slap landed just below his ear. Everyone was startled, but no one dared say anything.

“You think you’re clever enough to make arguments? Eat, and be done with it. Didn’t I tell you never to find fault with the food?”

Without uttering another word, Asumi lowered his head and began to eat.

From that day onward, Asumi stopped finding fault with things. I am certain that no sage, mullah, or learned man could have cured him of that habit so swiftly. Yet one hard slap from Grandfather set him right in a moment.

Grandfather would always say, “Don’t be in a hurry. With time, you will ripen into wisdom.”

No one ever sat us down to advise or teach us the ways of the world. With the passing of time, we learned and gathered our share of experience.

How right Grandfather had been!

***

One scorching day, one of the straps of my sawás[2] snapped. I tried as hard as I could to mend it, but everything I did couldn’t fix it. The earth was burning like an oven, with waves of heat rising from it, while the goats of my flock had scattered in every direction.

Reluctantly, I set out across the scorching ground and gathered the flock. When I finally returned and sat down beneath a tree, I looked at my bare feet and felt tears welling up in my eyes. They were covered in blisters, some as large as lemons.

At dusk, I drove the flock home. By then, I could hardly put my blistered feet to the ground. The moment I reached home, I went straight to Grandfather.

“Look at my feet. Just look at how badly they’re blistered! This broken strap has caused me so much trouble. Please make me a new pair of sawás, whatever it takes.”

When Grandfather saw my blistered feet, he replied with a touch of sarcasm: “All right, son. Go and soak the dwarf-palm leaves in water. After dinner, I’ll make you a new pair”.

I did exactly as Grandfather had told me. After dinner, Grandfather sat talking with the family for a while. Then he lay down and soon drifted off to sleep. I thought to myself that perhaps he would make them for me early the next morning.

The next morning, I saw Grandfather heading towards the fields, a shovel slung over his shoulder.

“Grandpa, what about my sawás?” I called out.

“Oh, damn! I completely forgot,” he said with a laugh. “Never mind. You go on. I’ll ask a man named Nakam to make you a pair.”

I took my flock, tucked the dwarf-palm leaves under my arm, and set off towards the jungle, hoping to find Nakam there.

I waited for him for a long time, but there was no sign of him anywhere. My feet were still covered in the blisters I had got the day before, and I had no strength left to walk under the blazing sun.

There was no sign of Nakam.

“What am I supposed to do now, O God?” I wondered.

To hell with him. Let him come or stay away. Why should he care? It’s my feet that are covered in blisters. With that thought, I set about making the sawás myself. I had watched people make them before, so I knew more or less what to do. They might not have been perfect, but somehow, I managed to make myself a new pair.

I was overjoyed. At last, I thought, my feet would no longer have to suffer the burning ground. When I returned home, Grandfather looked at me and, as usual, asked with a teasing smile: “So, my son, did Nakam ever show up?”

“Grandpa, why did you make me believe that a man named Nakam would come and make me a pair of sawás? I waited for him for ages, but he never came,” I replied, a little irritated.

“My son, the truth is, there is no man named Nakam in the whole hamlet. I told you about him because you are a shepherd, and you must learn to fend for yourself. If I make your sawás for you today, what will you do tomorrow?”

Then he added: “Ghulamok, my son, learn to take care of your own needs. Do not sit around waiting for someone named Nakam, because there is no such man in the entire hamlet.”

[1] Manzil: A Day-long journey equivalent to forty-eight mile

[2] Sawás*: Traditional handcrafted Balochi slippers made of dwarf-palm leaves.

Front cover images of the first and second edition of Sótkál

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. He has the translation rights of this novel.

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

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

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Categories
Nazrul Translations

Sunless 2 by Kazi Nazrul Islam

Kazi Nazrul Islam died in the same month as his friend and mentor Tagore, only it was a different date and year (August 29th, 1976). This poem. written after the death of Tagore, has been translated by Professor Fakrul Alam, who adds: “ The Bengali title of the poem, ‘Rabi-Hara‘, of course, puns on the fact that ‘rabi‘—the first part of Rabindranath Tagore’s name means the sun. To lose him, then, is to become ‘robi-hara‘ or ‘sunless’. The poem was written by Nazrul soon after Rabindranath’s death and read out by the poet himself on All India Radio, Calcutta (Kolkata).”

SUNLESS 2

The afternoon sun sags, collapsing on the roadway.
Sravan’s dark clouds swarm in,
Darkening the day,
And shrouding the sky,
Since you, Bengal’s heart,
India’s bard, and the world’s sun,
Have passed away!
Did you not hear at all the lament of mother earth?
Was that why you feigned illness and kept your eyes shut?
This day the pulse of Bengal has begun to throb with pain
O poet — seas, rivers, forests— all cry out for you in vain!
Vedantic knowledge was yours, forever on the tip of your tongue
Your writings had Saraswati’s blessings, full of learning and rhyme.
In your meditations, Shiva, God of everything auspicious, resided.
In your heart, Sri Krishna, the one who had even smitten Love, dallied!
Durga, consort of Shiva, and source of all joy, would converse with you.
How could they, deities so powerful, not feel the extent of our loss?
How could they snatch away what they had given so sympathetically?
After all, you were Bengal’s beacon of hope, lighting us up eternally!
We took pride in your glory; you made us feel earth was our only need.
You made us forget our afflictions—timidity, hunger, misery, and ruin!
You shone over our heads every day—like your namesake--the sun!
You made us proud; you made us feel we would never be undone!
You’ve bestowed much love on this land -- on India and Bengal,
How have we offended to have made you, thus, leave us all?
Tell me -- who else is there to bless those who dare to blaze?
Who else can protect the pride of the ones that are frail?
Behold, the whole of Bengal laments, unfurling its tresses.
See in this lunar fortnight the distressed moon hiding itself!
Screened by Shravan’s rain cloud, the sun weeps in the horizon
In house after house men and women cry out, “O poet, return!”
Alas, India’s fate blazes on a pyre, the body no longer visible.
This day, the vermilion marking Bengal’s beauties too is invisible!
Today Saraswati’s lyre and Bengal’s poetic soul know only silence
And funeral flames have scorched even the moon’s radiance!
Till now none knew how close you had become to everyone
All roads now hold millions of people -- all overcome with grief!

After you return to the rasa-filled realm from which you had come
To give us delight, won’t you miss us and lament your earthly home?
Your lyrical messages had made you this land’s dearest soul
But it was not merely its loveliness-- you had loved all of Bengal!
Assure us, O poet dearest to our heart, responding to our love
You will return once more to your people from up above.
Full of the rasas, you cried out soulfully for our suffering race
Why did you enamour us so? Now we’ll rue forever your loss!
I believe that if the sun is put out, the entire solar system will go.
Bengal’s sun set forever today; what we’ve lost only we will know!
No one besides Bengalis will feel the extent of their deprivation
Nowhere outside Bengal will be heard such loud lamentation!
The sun that shone over us has left, leaving us all benighted
In Bengal’s heart the one light blazing is your funeral pyre!
The rest of India envied Bengalis their good fortune and wondered
How had the sun deigned to descend on Bengal’s thatched huts?
Will Bengal get such a great, world-conquering superman again?
Can this poor land ever again dream of the kind of happiness
You gave us? And so, Kobi guru, our beloved muse-teacher,
We grieve, finding no consolation, no solace whatsoever!
We had thought of you as God’s blessing given to us eternally.
Let not death’s torpor make us forget forever heaven’s bounty.
As you depart from us, let us plant on your feet farewell kisses.
No matter where you are keep these ill-fated people in your wishes.

*shravan-Monsoon
*rasa- flavour

The poem seemingly has some common lines with the first one. But has it’s differences too. The first one can be read by clicking here.

Nazrul in his youth
Nazrul towards his end

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. 

Fakrul Alam is an academic, translator and writer from Bangladesh. He has translated works of Jibonananda Das and Rabindranath Tagore into English and is the recipient of Bangla Academy Literary Award (2012) for translation and SAARC Literary Award (2012).

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

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Categories
Poetry

A Sudden Shower

Poetry and translation from Korean by Ihlwha Choi

From Public Domain 
A SUDDEN SHOWER 

“Close the lid of the soy-sauce jar—
A shower is coming.
Bring in the mat of drying peppers—
The rain will pour down!”

Half-asleep, taking my afternoon nap,
I heard my mother's voice.

When I awoke and stepped into the yard,
the peppers on the drying mat 
were already soaked.

I hurried to the backyard.
“Oh dear!”
By then, rainwater had already gathered
inside the soy-sauce jar.

Mother had gone back to the fields,
and once again 
the sunlight blazed brightly across the day.

Ihlwha 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.

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

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

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Categories
Essay

Tagore’s Dance-Dramas in Translation

Somdatta Mandal explores six dance-dramas by Tagore translated from Bengali and Brajbuli by Indrani Haldar

Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1841) watching a performance of his nritya natya or dance drama: From Public Domain

The translation of different genres of Rabindranath Tagore’s works into English remains unabated till date. The translations of his novels, short stories, poems, non-fiction, and travelogues have been coming out at regular intervals, and multiple translations of some texts by different people, both professional and amateur, justify his popularity among all classes of readers, scholarly or mundane. Interestingly enough, compared to the other genres, drama happens to be a slightly neglected area in the world of Tagore translation and readership.

Throughout his life, Tagore experimented with different forms of plays – allegorical, symbolic, historical, comedies, and a kind of comic and witty plays known as ‘hasyakoutuk’. Again, there are some plays that focus more on dialogue than be dramatic enough to be enacted on stage. Apart from the various forms of plays that Tagore wrote and experimented with in his lifetime, there is another sort of play which does not have any antecedents, where the three aspects of acting, songs and dance have developed into a local form of opera. In plays like Mayar Khela, Shapmochon, Shyama, Chitrangada, Chandalika or Kalmrigoya and Tasher Desh [1](these last two plays of course have prose and songs in the dialogue), Tagore uses dialogue through the use of songs. The power that these plays generate as plays per se can be an interesting area of discussion, but these latter operatic types of plays, except for Bengali speaking readers, are hard to find and be appreciated by a pan-Indian or non-Bengali readership. 

This is where a present set of six very aesthetically produced slim volumes (published in 2024 and 2025) all of them beautifully translated into English by Indrani Haldar, a retired professor of English at Jadavpur University, Kolkata, gains significance. The very first book in this translated series is entitled Bhanusingha Thakurer Padabali [2] and Rabindranath had composed the lyrics as a young writer only sixteen years old under the pseudonym of Bhanusingha Thakur. Dedicated to the memory of his sister-in-law Kadambari Debi who was his one-time playmate and companion, the twenty-one lyrics presented in the book are written in the Vaishnava Padabali tradition initiated by the Maithili poet Vidyapati in the 15th century and which gained impetus in the 16th century in Bengal under the cultural and religious influence of Shree Chaitanya Deva’s revival of Vaishnavism.  Built around the love-legend of Radha and Krishna in both material and mystical forms, these lyrics are composed in brajabuli, (a mixture of Maithili and Bengali and Sanskrit) and the language in which the early padabalis had been written. Later in life, Rabindranath was not enthusiastic about these songs and spoke about them as being somewhat enclosed within the limits of a particular thought-system. The bilingual version of this volume, also becomes the books USP.

Photo Courtesy: Somdatta Mandal

The second book in this series is titled Free Waterfall. It is a translation of Muktodhara. Written in 1922, it is a sombre and singularly focused play, perhaps the most powerful of Rabindranath’s dramatic output. The background of the play is of course the nation-wide Non-Cooperation Movement launched by Mahatma Gandhi and the political backdrop of this can hardly be ignored. This symbolical and allegorical play has two prominent figures namely, Dhanajay Bairagi and the Crown Prince, Abhijit. Despite their appeal to the masses, both are misunderstood and persecuted figures, pursuing their ideals and visions alone and of choice. Both are determined and steadfast in their stand while rejecting violent options. The ideals pursued and values inculcated include a disapproval of machines misused by humans to enhance political power, to dominate the powerless and increase their suffering, and to harm and destroy the forces of nature which shape a beneficient environment. Though the play ends with the tragic death of the prince, as most often in Rabindranath’s creative work, hope, love, courage and compassion are attainable at the end of the dark tunnel.

The third book published in this series is Tasher Desh, titled The Kingdom of Cards. Written in 1933, and dedicating it to Subhas Chandra Bose, while remembering that he had “taken up the sacred task of inspiring new life and soul” of India, Tasher Desh is a complex play resisting any straight-jacketed or single interpretation, thus necessitating a multi-dimensional approach. Tagore’s travels to Europe and the United States in the early 1930s were necessarily reflected in his creative work. It is interesting to surmise that the state-sponsored regimentation that the sensitive poet must have been aware of on his European tour, especially in Nazi Germany and Stalinist Russia, the half-suppressed state of fear prevailing, and the claustrophobic atmosphere stifling creativity, has found expression in this play.  In the play, the Prince, in search of new world, lands up after his shipwreck, in a country where people have been flattened geometrically into mindless cards, unable either to think or act, leave alone create, on their own, a condition of mindless subservience. The play of course ends in a paean to new life, a freedom from fear, a ‘breaking open’ of all closed doors. Tagore therefore stresses the importance of eternal human values which he hopes will return to a world hell-bent on losing them.

Photo Courtesy: Somdatta Mandal

The two dance-dramas Chitrangada and Shyama, though creatively separated by three decades, are the most popular of Tagore’s works, and present his continuous quest for and questioning of the multi-dimensional character of love. Both the women protagonists in these plays are strong characters, outstripping their male counterparts in impact. Chitrangada (1891) an early verse-play, is based on a subsidiary story gleaned from Mahabharata. In the play both Arjun and Chitrangada progress from sensual attraction to a realisation of the innate substantial qualities of love, from romantic obsession to a deeper relationship between lover and beloved. Shyama, on the other hand, has antecedents in a Buddhist tale from the Jatakas. Revised and perfected by Tagore in the final decade of his creative life, the approach is more paradoxical and ambiguous. Though as strong a character as Chitrangada, Shyama is self-centeredly willing, even eager, to compromise basic human values like compassion or sympathy in her sudden all-consuming passion for Bajrasen. According to the translator, the rationale for bringing together these two remarkable plays under a single cover is because in all his explorations into the manifestations and vicissitudes of human love, the poet has been able to emphasise its inherently paradoxical nature.

Balmiki Pratibha (The Genius of Balmiki) and Kalmrigaya (The Fatal Hunt), two early plays by the youthful, newly West-returned Tagore were written as experiments in fusing music with theatre as in the Western operating tradition and the Indian usage of kathakata[3]. They initiated the trail of musical plays which weave themselves into the writer’s creative work though the poet was to admit later, in Jibonsmriti (Reminiscenses), that he was never again to experience as much enthusiasm as he did in writing these two plays. The story in Balmiki Pratibha was culled from the Ramayana, as was Kalmrigaya, though the former play has a more elaborate storyline and involves several ideological constructs, some shared with the latter. Human emotions, like anger or compassion found a more dramatic expression when coupled with music, the poet-dramatist felt. According to the translator, these two musical plays should be considered together for the similarities they reveal in both technical and thematic aspects.

Photo Courtesy: Somdatta Mandal

The sixth and the latest volume in this translation series contains three plays, Mayar Khela, Shapmochan and Chandalika. This trio of plays offer insights into the entire range of Rabindranath Tagore’s creative work at the centre of which rules love, sensual or spiritual, transformational and divine, or of the earth, earthy. The three plays in this anthology, separated from each other by decades, present an epic range of emotions, from desire to sacrifice and compassion, and are a testament to the writer’s analytical and ideological concerns and actually complement each other. Mayar Khela, the earliest of these romantic verse-plays, follows Tagore’s early experiments in fusing music and theatricality. Presenting a multitude of characters, each exhibiting an aspect at variance with the others, they move around in interweaving circles, ranging from calm, sacrificing acceptance to erratic detachment.  In Shapmochan, a clear viewpoint is presented in the emphasis laid on a love that transcends physicality to reach beyond appearances. In the final geetinatya[4], Chandalika, the love of an untouchable woman for the Buddhist monk, Ananda, transforms her entire world. Here Rabindranath depicts not just the impulsive force of love but also its ability to transform and transcend mere physicality.

As mentioned earlier, this series of translations brings fresh light on Tagore’s works, and we expectantly wait for many more such productions in the near future.

[1] Mayar Khela – The Game of Illusion: Shapmochan – The Breaking of a Curse: Kalmrigoya –The Fatal Hunt: Tasher Desh—The Kindom of Cards. Shyama and Chitrangada are named after the protagonists.

[2] Bhanusingha Thakurer Padabali – The verses of Bhanusingha Thakur

[3] Art of religious and mythological storytelling rooted in folklore.

[4] Translates to song-play … what we refer to as dance-dramas too.

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Somdatta Mandal, critic and translator, is a retired Professor of English at Visva-Bharati, Santiniketan, India.

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

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

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Categories
Poetry

Dragonfly 2 by Ihlwha Choi

Poetry and translation from Korean by Ihlwha Choi

From Public Domain 

DRAGONFLY 2

A dragonfly
is flying before a spider’s web.

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.

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Categories
Review

Ordinary Wars of Ordinary People

Book Review by Rakhi Dalal

Title: The Cold War of Sadanand Borse

Author: Shyam Manohar

Translated from Marathi by Jerry Pinto

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

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/ .

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

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Categories
Excerpt

Snowed Under

Title: Snowed Under

Author: Nirmala Thomas

Translated from Malyalam by Radhika P Menon

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

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.

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Categories
Review

The Legacy of Wajid Ali Shah

Title: Wajid Ali Shah: A Cultural and Literary Legacy 

Author: Kaukub Talat Quder Sajjad Ali Meerza

Translated fromUrdu by Talat 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

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Categories
The Lost Mantras

Exploring Malay Traditions

Poetry and translations from Malay by Isa Kamari

Bulang Bidang worn by commoners
Getam 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.

[1]A dagger

[2] Malay headgear

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

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