In an Indian Santiniketan guesthouse,
I swatted a buzzing mosquito with my palm,
But it seems I hit the mosquito's back instead.
Startled, it hurriedly flew away.
On a summer night in Seoul,
A single mosquito is scouting my room with its buzzing wings.
I struck it with the fan I had,
Like a roof being blown away by a tornado,
The mosquito spiralled and shot up towards the ceiling.
Even after the fan's breeze subsided for quite some time,
It still seems not quite in its senses,
Continuing to buzz around every nook and cranny of the ceiling.
This mosquito is engaged in a dangerous coexistence,
I wonder if it has stockpiled emergency rations other than humans!
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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Translated from Bengali by Aruna Chakravarti, who adds: ‘The story, Musulmani’r Galpa[1], was published posthumously in July 1995 in the journal Ritupatra. In all probability, it was dictated from the writer’s sick bed just before his death in 1941.’
Veiled Woman, Ink on paper, by Tagore, National Gallery of Modern Art, New Delhi. Courtesy: Creative Commons
This is a story of long ago. Of a period in our history when the seeds of evil governance had sprouted thorns all over the land. When fear and anxiety had trapped the soul of the common man in the skeins of such a stifling web that all other emotions had dwindled and died. When imagined assault from demonic forces gripped all minds. When the simple act of living turned into a nightmare and trust could be reposed in neither God nor Man. When the line between good and evil had blurred and tears were the only reality…
In an age such as this, the presence of a girl was deemed a curse in a middle-class family. More so if she was beautiful. Porarmukhi![2]May your fair face burn to ashes! Curses such as these, bitter and stinging, were heaped on the poor girl. “If we could only rid ourselves of this accursed creature,” the women of the family wailed, “we might sleep peacefully in our beds.”
Such a situation, exactly, had arisen in the household of Bangshibadan, the talukdar[3] of Teen Mahala. His niece Kamala was beautiful. Worse, she was an orphan. Had she died along with her parents the family could have breathed easy. But she had lived on as a burden in her uncle’s household and was made aware of it every passing minute. “Just look at my luck sister,” her aunt was often heard complaining to the neighbouring women, “The parents dumped this monumental responsibility on my shoulders and left for the other world. Evil glances are cast at her from all sides. Anything may happen at any time. I have young children of my own and can’t sleep from fear of what will become of them. I live in constant dread…”
Bangshibadan didn’t share his wife’s annoyance at Kamala’s presence in his house. He loved her dearly and had brought her up with great solicitude. He kept her hidden from prying eyes, personally supervising her welfare and taking care of her needs. Life went on somehow but when a marriage proposal came for her, she couldn’t be kept hidden anymore. “I will wed her only into a family which has the means to protect her,” Bangshibadan was in the habit of saying, and now it seemed as though he had found what he was looking for.
The boy was the second son of Paramananda Seth, the zamindar of Mochakhali. People feared Paramananda for his money power but even more for the posse of hefty Bhojpuri lathiyals[4] he kept to guard his house and possessions. “There isn’t one son of a gun in the whole district,” the prospective bridegroom boasted to Bangshibadan, “who’ll have the gall to lay a hand on her.” He was very proud of his father’s wealth and had devised many ways of spending it. Falcon flying, gambling, bird fights…he was a master of all these pursuits. He was, as well, extremely susceptible to feminine charm. Though he had a wife already he was looking for another, younger, one and when reports of Kamala’s beauty reached his ears, he decided that she was the bride for him.
Kamala was appalled when she heard what her uncle had in mind for her. “Where are you sending me Kakamoni?” She burst into tears, “You may as well set me adrift in the river.”
“If I had the power to, protect you,” Bangshibadan replied sadly, “I would have kept you clasped to my breast for all time to come. You know that Ma…”
The arrival of the wedding party at the bride’s house was accompanied by a lot of fanfare. The sound of drums and pipes rent the air. Bangshibadan was alarmed. “Babaji,” he folded his hands before the groom, “It would be better if the noise was toned down a bit. It is unwise to attract too much attention.” But the groom was unfazed. “Let’s see which son of a gun…” he repeated his old line, his chest puffed out with importance.
“I am a poor man with little clout,” Bangshibadan sighed and said, “I can’t vouch for the safety of everyone under my roof for long. I take responsibility only until the completion of the rituals. After that I will leave it to you to conduct your bride safely to your father’s house.”
“No need to worry. No need to worry,” The bridegroom twirled his moustache arrogantly and, watching him, the lathiyals were emboldened to twirl theirs as well.
It was nearing midnight when the wedding party set off with the bride for Mochakhali. A couple of hours later, while crossing the dreaded tract of land called Taaltarhir Maath, they were waylaid by the notorious dacoit Madhu Mallar and his gang. Bearing down on them with flaring torches and weapons far deadlier than lathis, the dacoits soon made short shrift of the lathiyals. The wedding guests fled in all directions abandoning the palanquin in which Kamala sat trembling with fear. Then, just as she was about to step out and try to hide in the bushes, she heard a man’s voice booming out of the dark. “Halt! Go back from where you came my sons. I am Habir Khan.”
Madhu Mallar and his gang stepped back instantly. They had great reverence for Habir Khan. In their eyes he was no less than a paigambar …a messenger from God.
“We can’t disobey you Khan Saheb,” Madhu Mallar said glumly, “but you’ve certainly ruined my business for the night.”
Habir Khan did not oblige him with a reply. Helping Kamala out of the palanquin he told her, “You are in great danger, child. You must leave this place at once. Come with me. I will take you to my house. It is only a short distance from here.” Seeing her shrink at his suggestion, he added, “I understand your reluctance. You are a Hindu, a brahmin’s daughter. It is natural for you to hesitate before entering a Muslim household. But let me tell you something. A truly devout Muslim respects a truly devout Hindu and won’t dream of harming him in any way. Trust me my child. You and your religion will be totally safe in my house.”
Habir Khan and Kamala walked through the woods till they came to a huge mansion. Leading her into one of its eight wings, he said, “This will be your home from now on. You will live here exactly as you did in your uncle’s house.” Kamala looked around. There was a yard with a temple at one end and a tulsi manch[5]at the other. The place looked no different from an upper-class Hindu abode. Everything she would need for her day-to-day living could be found here.
An elderly Brahmin came forward to greet her. “Come Ma,” he said in a kind voice. “Have no fear. This place is sacred. Your religion will be fully protected.”
Kamala burst into tears. “Please inform my uncle about what has happened. Tell him to come and take me home.”
“You are making a mistake child,” Habir Khan’s voice came to her ears, “After tonight’s incident you won’t find acceptance in any Hindu household. You’ll be thrown out into the streets.” He saw the expression on Kamala’s face and sighed. “Very well. I will take you there and let you see for yourself.”
Habir Khan led her to the door of Bangshibadan’s house and bade her go in. “I’ll be waiting here in case you need me,” he said.
Kamala flung herself on her uncle’s chest and wound her arms around his neck. “I have come back to you Kakamoni. Don’t send me away,” she begged. Bangshibadan’s eyes filled with tears. But before he could utter a word his wife burst into the room. “Throw her out,” she shrieked, “Throw the blighted creature out at once. She’s lived in a Muslim’s house. She’ll pollute us all.” Then turning to the weeping, shivering girl, she cursed and upbraided her in shrill penetrating tones. “Accursed one! How dare you show your face here after what you’ve done? Don’t you have any shame?”
Bangshibadan disengaged Kamala’s arms gently from his neck. “Forgive me Ma,” he said sadly. “I cannot take you back. I’m a Hindu. I’ll lose caste if I accept you. I’ll be ostracised by everyone in the village.” Kamala stood for a while, head bowed, then slowly made her way out of the house to where Habir Khan was waiting. She went away with him. The door of her old world was now shut against her for all time to come.
Kamala settled down in the rooms allotted to her. “All this is yours,” Habir Khan said to her waving his hands across the yard. “Not a single member of my family will set foot in this wing. Feel free to live in it the way you wish.”
This part of the mansion had a history. It even had a name. It was called Rajputani’r Mahal[6]. Many years ago, a nawab of Bengal had brought a Rajputani princess and installed her here. He had kept her with great dignity and made sure that she had no difficulty in practicing her religion. She was a very devout woman and an ardent worshipper of Shiva, so a temple was built for her in her own premises. She loved going on pilgrimages and arrangements for them were made with meticulous care. Over the years she became a role model for other Hindu begums and many of them found sanctuary under her sheltering wings.
Habir Khan was the Rajputani’s son. Though he followed his father’s religion he worshipped his mother like a goddess. He sought her guidance in every matter and it was from her that he had learned to respect the opposite sex. She had been dead these many years, but Habir Khan never forgot the vow he had made to her. To provide shelter to widowed and abandoned Hindu women. Scorned, persecuted, hated and stigmatised for no fault of theirs, many were forced to sell their bodies for a roof above their heads and a handful of rice in their stomachs.
As the days passed a realisation started dawning on Kamala. The freedom and comfort she enjoyed in this Muslim household was of a quality she hadn’t even dreamed of while living with her uncle. He cared for her but was powerless to protect her from ceaseless taunts, curses and abuses. She had grown so used to them… she had begun to think of herself as a blighted creature, a disgrace on the family, fit only to be thrown out on the streets. Here, in her new home, she was showered with luxuries. Every need of hers was taken care of by Hindu serving women. She was overwhelmed with kindness and love.
A few years went by. Slowly a change came over her. The winds of youth started to blow and her mind and body quivered with an unknown emotion. She fell in love with one of Habir Khan’s sons.
One day she opened her heart to her protector. Habir Khan’s face paled at her confession, but she went on calmly, “My love is my religion Baap jaan[7]. I have no other. I have worshipped many gods and goddesses in the past. I have poured out my heart and soul to them in prayer. I have begged for deliverance. Yet not one deity deigned to cast a glance at me or even send a sign that my prayer had been heard. What hope is left to me from a religion that leaves a poor, trusting, suffering girl rotting in a pit of abuse and persecution? I have known what it is to live, truly live, only after I stepped across your threshold. From you I’ve learned that even the lowest of human beings deserve love and protection.” Tears rolled down her cheeks. She wiped them away and continued, “From all the hardships I faced in life I have learned one lesson. The Lover and Protector is the true deity. He is neither Hindu nor Muslim. Baap jaan, I have given my heart to your second son, Karim, and my worship is now tied with his. In embracing Islam, I need not give up the faith I was born to. I can follow both.”
The marriage took place. Kamala’s name was changed to Meherjaan and she became a valued and integral part of Habir Khan’s family.
Now the time came for Bangshibadan to wed his own daughter. And history repeated itself as it is wont to do. While crossing Taaltarhir Maath the groom’s party was waylaid by Madhu Mallar’s men. They had been thwarted once. They were out for revenge. But as soon as they launched their attack a voice came out of the dark. “Khabardar[8]! Step back at once.”
“Ore baba re[9]!” the dacoits ran helter skelter, “It’s Habir Khan!” Abandoning the bride to her fate the wedding guests did the same. Suddenly, a figure appeared on the scene holding a banner aloft on a spear. It was Habir Khan’s banner with his emblem, a half- moon, painted on it. But the bearer was a woman. Approaching the palanquin, she helped the trembling girl out of it. “Don’t be afraid Sarala,” she said, “Your elder sister is here to save you. From today you’ll be under the protection of the One who loves and provides sanctuary to all human beings irrespective of caste, creed or religion.”
Turning to her uncle she said, “Pronam kaka[10]. Don’t be alarmed. I shall not pollute you by touching your feet. Take Sarala home. No one has dared to lay a finger on her. She’s as pure today as on the day she was born. And tell kaki[11]that I never thought I could pay back the debt I owe her. The debt of food and shelter so ungraciously doled out while I was her dependent. I am doing so now.” Putting a red silk sari and an asan[12] covered with rich brocade into her uncle’s hands, she added, “I brought these gifts for Sarala. Take them. And remember, if she’s ever in trouble her Muslim sister will be there for her. To give her all the care and protection she requires.”
Aruna Chakravartihas been the principal of a prestigious women’s college of Delhi University for ten years. She is also a well-known academic, creative writer and translator with fourteen published books on record. Her novels Jorasanko, Daughters of Jorasanko, The Inheritors, Suralakshmi Villa have sold widely and received rave reviews. The Mendicant Prince and her short story collection, Through a Looking Glass, are her most recent books. She has also received awards such as the Vaitalik Award, Sahitya Akademi Award and Sarat Puraskar for her translations.
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RAIN - 1
It’s raining abroad now, in countries close by or far away.
Occasionally a cold wind from some other land blows this way
This summer evening brings with it sadness and beauty
Blowing this way from some distant land!
A cold, cold wind keeps blowing
Slowly stirring desire, fomenting longing
For alien rituals on such an evening.
In the distance, in a riverbank ruled by beauty
In another land, wonderfully wet in the rain,
Lightning flashes time and again
Stirring desire for one’s lover steadily
Inevitably, on such an evening!
Towards my homeland
The cold wind keeps blowing
O my alien lover
Where could you be staying?RAIN - 2
It’s raining
Over distant lands
Over Brahma’s world,
Over Rangpur and Bogra’s vast expanse
In alluvial plains,
The rain veils Burma’s evening fields
And keeps streaming down.
And below these lightning flashes,
At the rain-formed night’s third quarter
Radiant races
Spring up at home or abroad
Like hyperactive frogs leaping
Into the unknown.
Provoked by thunder and lightning’s violent outbursts,
Allured by their promises,
In the thick veil
And swirling stream,
In the darkness of the wet wind,
In the eastern expanse,
Underneath the sky
In vast and empty fields
Under the vast spread-out arum fields of the east,
Incredibly, unformed new nations emerge --
Innumerable unsteady chaotic nations,
Restless, perturbed, incapable of standing up,
Lending themselves to grotesque maps,
Forming unstable, quivering, permeable boundaries
Governed by ill-defined laws and dwarf impotent ombudsmen
And armies marching past unimpressively,
They spring for no good reason
And seem destined to be doomed.
The night draws to a close. The rain too appears spent.
When day’s first light breaks out,
Those nations that would thrive and grow
And glow with innumerable rituals and fast-spreading religions
Feel their bodies disintegrating and disappearing
Under the vast spread-out arum fields of the east.
*Rangpur, Bogra— Two small cities in the northern part of Bangladesh
Masud Khan (b. 1959) is a Bengali poet and writer. He has, authored nine volumes of poetry and three volumes of prose and fiction. His poems and fictions (in translation) have appeared in journals including Asiatic, Contemporary Literary Horizon, Six Seasons Review, Kaurab, 3c World Fiction, Ragazine.cc, Nebo: A literary Journal, Last Bench, Urhalpul, Tower Journal, Muse Poetry, Word Machine, and anthologies including Language for a New Century: Contemporary Poetry from the Middle East, Asia, and Beyond (W.W. Norton & Co., NY/London); Contemporary Literary Horizon Anthology,Bucharest; Intercontinental Anthology of Poetry on Universal Peace (Global Fraternity of Poets); and Padma Meghna Jamuna: Modern Poetry from Bangladesh(Foundation of SAARC Writers and Literature, New Delhi). Two volumes of his poems have been published as translations, Poems of Masud Khan(English), Antivirus Publications, UK, and Carnival Time and Other Poems (English and Spanish), Bibliotheca Universalis, Romania. Born and brought up in Bangladesh, Masud Khan lives in Canada and teaches at a college in Toronto.
A poem by Sangita Swechcha, translated from Nepali by Hem Bishwakarma
Painting by Bernardus Johannes Blommers (1845-1914). Courtesy: Creative Commons
A purpose in my life,
A reason to survive,
A flower budding inside me
That impatiently cried,
Begging to understand the meaning of life.
The terrible struggle with life --
Hundreds of questions from
A one-day old
Deluged me,
Exhausted and distressed.
Though life was not that easy--
The flower that desired to flower
Did not want to wither
Without a struggle.
The amusement in my life,
Lost in strange thoughts
With silent, helpless emotions,
Tensed, fell down and cried,
With an abrupt pain of separation.
A life as in a story
And a story of life
With hope dared to live.
She, her courage and I --
The entanglement of
Struggle and pain,
Perhaps, was a trial of restraint.
A tiny life to chuckle that learned
Living was a novel mesh of affection.
The life that sprouted inside me,
Has patience to contend her life.
There is a desire, and a trust
For her whole life is a dream that has yet to unfold!
O dancer!
Come and dance
with ecstasy and trance
to set my heart aflame.
This dark and ebony night
may never see dawn's light.
May the jingle of your anklets
never cease into silence,
even for a moment.
As long as lingers the hangover,
Move forth, stretch out your hands
and see how the colourful cash floats.
Why think of honour and modesty?
You're helpless, so am I.
You're famished, so am I --
You, for a crumb of bread.
I, of an anguished heart.
Who is chaste? Who is wanton?
Who is innocent? Who a sinner?
I know each and everyone.
Sealed are my lips.
These perfidious Masters and Chiefs,
shameless Mullahs and Pirs,
blood sucking oppressors
Are Man's eternal enemies.
Keep shaking your body,
till it crumbles apart
and all your organs shatter
like crystal on the floor.
O dancer!
Come and dance
With ecstasy and trance
And set my heart aflame.
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Bashir Baidar belongs to the generation of the Balochi poets that emerged on the horizons of Balochi literature in the 1960s. Drawing inspiration from Progressive Writers Movement, Baidar’s poetry is widely cherished for his political undertone. So far, he has published four anthologies of his poetry. This poem is taken from Gowarbam (second edition) published by Pak News Agency Turbat in 2021.
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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.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Perhaps, most sceptics will say it is against human nature to stop fighting and fanning differences. The first recorded war was fought more than 13,000 years ago in what is now a desert but was green long ago. Nature changed its face. Continents altered over time. And now again, we are faced with strange shifts in climate that could redefine not just the dimensions of the surface area available to humankind but also our very physical existence. Can we absorb these changes as a species when we cannot change our nature to self-destruct for concepts that with a little redefining could move towards a world without wars leading to famines, starvation, destruction of beautiful edifices of nature and those built by humankind? That we could feed all of humans — a theory that won economist Abhijit Banerjee his Nobel Prize in 2019 so coveted by all humanity — almost seems to have taken a backseat. This confuses — as lemmings self-destruct…do humans too? I would have thought that all humanity would have moved towards resolving hunger and facing the climate crises post-2019 and post-pandemic, instead of killing each other for retaining constructs created by powerbrokers.
In the timeless lyrics of ‘Imagine’, John Lennon found peace by suggesting we do away with manmade constructs which breed war, anger and divisions and share the world as one. Wilfred Owen and many writers involved in the World Wars wrote to showcase the desolation and the heartfelt darkness that is brought on by such acts. Nazrul also created a story based on his experience in the First World War, ‘Hena’, translated for us by Sohana Manzoor. Showcasing the downside of another kind of conflict, a struggle to survive, is a story with a distinctive and yet light touch from S Ramakrishnan translated from Tamil by B Chandramouli. And yet in a conflict-ridden world, humans still yearn to survive, as is evident from Tagore’s poem Pran or ‘Life’. Reflecting it is the conditioning that we go through from our birth that makes us act as we do are translations by Professor Fakrul Alam of Masud Khan’s poetry and from Korean by Ihlwha Choi.
A figure who questioned his own conditioning and founded a new path towards survival; propounded living by need, and not greed; renounced violence and founded a creed that has survived more than 2500 years, is the man who rose to be the Buddha. Born as Prince Siddhartha, he redefined the norms with messages of love and peace. Reiterating the story of this legendary human is debutante author, Advait Kottary with his compelling Siddhartha:The Boy Who Became the Buddha, a book that has been featured in our excerpts too. In an interview, Kottary tells us more of what went into the making of the book which perhaps is the best survivor’s guide for humanity — not that we need to all become Buddhas but more that we need to relook at our own beliefs, choices and ways of life.
Another thinker-cum-film maker interviewed in this edition is Vinta Nanda for her film Shout, which highlights and seeks resolutions for another kind of crisis faced by one half of the world population today. She has been interviewed and her documentary reviewed by Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri. Chaudhuri has also given us an essay on a bookshop called Kunzum which continues to expand and go against the belief we have of shrinking hardcopy markets.
Gastronomical adventures seem to be another concurrent theme in this edition. Rhys Hughes has written of the Indian sweets with gulab jamun as the ultimate life saver from Yetis while trekking in the Himalayas! A musing on lemon pickle by Raka Banerjee and Ravi Shankar’s quest for the ultimate dosaaround the world — from India, to Malaysia, to Aruba, Nepal and more… tickle our palate and make us wonder at the role of food in our lives as does the story about biryani battles by Anagaha Narasimha.
Talk of war, perhaps, conjures up gastronomic dreams as often scarcity of food and resources, even potable water and electricity is a reality of war or conflict. Michael Burch brings to us poignant poetry about war as Ramesh Karthik Nayak has a poem on a weapon used in wars. Ryan Quinn Flanagan has brought another kind of ongoing conflict to our focus with his poetry centring on the National Day (May 5th) in Canada for Vigils for Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women by hanging red clothes from trees, an issue that perhaps has echoes of Vinta Nanda’s Shout and Suzanne Kamata’s poetry for her friend who went missing decades ago as opposed to Rachel Jayen’s defiant poetry where she asserts her womanhood. Ron Pickett, George Freek and Sayantan Sur have given us introspective perspectives in verse. We have more poetry asking for a relook at societal norms with tongue-in -cheek humour by Jason Ryberg and of course, Rhys Hughes with his heartfelt poem on raiders in deserts.
The piece that really brought a smile to the lips this time was Farouk Gulsara’s ‘Humbled by a Pig’, a humorous recount of man’s struggles with nature after he has disrupted it. Keith Lyons has taken a look at the concept of bucket lists, another strange construct, in a light vein. Devraj Singh Kalsi has given a poignant and empathetic piece about trees with a self-reflective and ironic twist. We have narratives from around the world with Suzanne Kamata taking us to Osaka Comic Convention, Meredith Stephens to Sierra Nevada and Shivani Shrivastav to Ladakh. Paul Mirabile has travelled to the subterranean world with his fiction, in the footsteps perhaps of Jules Verne but not quite.
We are grateful to all our wonderful contributors some of whom have not been mentioned here but their works were selected because they truly enriched our June edition. Do visit our contents page to meet and greet all our wonderful authors. I would like to thank the team at Borderless without whose efforts and encouragement our journal would not exist and Sohana Manzoor especially for her fantastic artwork as well. Thank you all.
Wish you another lovely month of interesting reads!
HOMA-BIRD
Once I fall, how much must I drop down before I can rise up again?
As this thought crosses my mind, I am reminded of the Homa-bird found high in the sky. It even lays its eggs there. The eggs then fall down. But because the bird lives so high in the sky its eggs take ages to fall. Its chicks hatch even as the eggs descend. And then it’s time for the chicks to fall. As they begin to fall the chicks sprout eyes and feathers and wings. And one day they discover that they are falling down and down. It is then that they begin to fly to their mothers high up in the sky. They fly so high now that they emerge as specks scattered all along the spread-out body of the sky
We are of the breed of these birds. We procreate, raise children; we drop down and rise up again!
[Homapakhi; Translated by Fakrul Alam]
GONE WHO KNOWS WHERE
An unending queue of children flowed forward
Going who knows where?
With great difficulty, I spotted my own child there.
But when I tried kissing him
I ended up kissing someone else’s child!
And then I lost him— lost him forever!
Dazed, distressed— I seem doomed to a lifetime of waiting.
[Aggato Uddesh; Translated by Fakrul Alam]
REJECTION
Abruptly today a baby is expelled from its mother’s breasts.
Though it keeps gravitating towards her— hopefully—
It continues to be rejected. Startled, it still keeps trying....
How can the innocent baby make sense of such evictions?
It can comprehend nothing— neither the implications
Nor the reasons behind its mother’s bizarre actions.
All it can do is wonder— is mother playing with it?
Or is she just being cruel, suddenly unmotherly,
Distracted by the sudden heat wave of the season?
The baby broods, all alone, helpless. And then once again
It turns towards its mother, only for another round of rejection...
Now inconsolable, it breaks out into tears, feeling hurt
And rejected, sobbing endlessly till sleep silences it...
Only its craving for love keeps striking one’s ears
Its magnitude scattering here, there, everywhere!
[Protyakhyan; Translated by Fakrul Alam]
Masud Khan (b. 1959) is a Bengali poet and writer. He has, authored nine volumes of poetry and three volumes of prose and fiction. His poems and fictions (in translation) have appeared in journals including Asiatic, Contemporary Literary Horizon, Six Seasons Review, Kaurab, 3c World Fiction, Ragazine.cc, Nebo: A literary Journal, Last Bench, Urhalpul, Tower Journal, Muse Poetry, Word Machine, and anthologies including Language for a New Century: Contemporary Poetry from the Middle East, Asia, and Beyond (W.W. Norton & Co., NY/London); Contemporary Literary Horizon Anthology,Bucharest; Intercontinental Anthology of Poetry on Universal Peace (Global Fraternity of Poets); and Padma Meghna Jamuna: Modern Poetry from Bangladesh(Foundation of SAARC Writers and Literature, New Delhi). Two volumes of his poems have been published as translations, Poems of Masud Khan(English), Antivirus Publications, UK, and Carnival Time and Other Poems (English and Spanish), Bibliotheca Universalis, Romania. Born and brought up in Bangladesh, Masud Khan lives in Canada and teaches at a college in Toronto.
By S. Ramakrishnan, translated from Tamil by Dr B. Chandramouli
The man was around 30. He had sleepless eyes, unkempt hair, and pale lips. He had on a grey half sleeve shirt and blue pants which did not match. Wearing rubber slippers with frayed edges, he was carrying a cloth bag, which he guarded closely on his lap, as if it contained a rare object. Because persons like him were a common sight at the taluka[1] office, no one paid him any attention. He had the hesitant look of someone about to request a loan. He was sitting in a slanted position leaning on his right leg.
The taluka office assumes a relaxed atmosphere during lunchtime. Losing its stiffness, it becomes more like a public library. Workers smile; you can talk to them easily. Maybe he was waiting for that stretch of time. They had built this new office with three floors on a side street near the end of the overhead bridge. When you think of a taluka office, you get the picture of a dusty neem tree, dirty steps and semi-dark rooms; this building was not like that. But there was a jeep blocking the entrance and abandoned bikes that reminded of the old office.
Most government offices did not have lifts; even if they did, they did not work. This office also had only a big staircase. While climbing the stairs, you could see a big government poster pasted on the opposite wall. The office had big windows, like in wedding halls. One worker who did not like too much light had opened only half of the window near his seat. During lunchtime, there was big traffic of vendors: Bagyathammal who sells hot murukku in a silver bucket; Muthu, who sells sweets and snacks; Kasim, who sells towels and lungis, and Kalaivani, who sells nighties and cotton sarees. The workers at the office were their favourite customers.
They continued to visit, even though the office had moved. Especially, Kesavan who sells the hot coconut sweet ‘boli’, had a free run of this office; he would enter regardless of who was there. He will place two bolis wrapped in newspaper on the Tahsildar’s table.
Bagyathammal could climb the stairs slowly only because she was overweight and also had a corn on her foot. They would know of her arrival just by the noise the silver bucket made on the steps. Many workers would be satiated only after munching on her murukku after lunch. They had a water cooler for cold water, which the old office did not have. Kasim would always fill his green bottle with the cold water. He would relish drinking that cold water with a unique expression of bliss on his face. Except for the boy from the tea stall opposite, and Subbiah from the xerox store, most people who came to the office were there to get certificates for caste, income, residency or land ownership. You could easily identify them by their looks. Being nervous, they would drop and scatter their certificates; some could not even answer the questions. Though all the wooden tables were similar, only the table where the officer received the petitions would appear huge to them. Even the leaders in the pictures hung on the wall were unsmiling.
After lunch, many of the workers would not return to their tables immediately. Some would go downstairs to smoke. Raghavan, who was going downstairs, noticed the man sitting aslant.
“What do you want?” he asked while passing.
When the man hesitantly said, “You see.., I.. well,…”
Raghavan told him, “Go inside and ask.”
Some workers had returned after the lunch break. Jayanthi was keeping her washed tiffin box near the window. The man stood in front of Sabapathy’s table and called out — “Sir…”
.
Sabapathy was searching for a pin to use as a toothpick. Thinking that the man was selling some snacks, he asked, “What did you bring?”
The man produced an old photograph from his bag and said. “Muhammad Ali’s photo.”
Startled and uncomprehending, Sabapathy asked, “What is that?”
“Muhammad Ali Sir, the world famous boxer. My father is the one standing nearby; see here, it has Muhammad Ali’s signature at the bottom.”
“OK, but why are you showing it to me?” asked Sabapathy, not understanding.
“They took it when Muhammad Ali came to Madras.”
“That is all fine. Are you here to give some petition?”
“I came to sell Muhammad Ali’s signature, Sir,” he said hesitantly.
Sabapathy did not understand what he said.
“Selling a signature?… But what can I do with it?” asked sarcastically.
The man hung his head and said, “It is a very valuable signature, Sir. I have money problems at home; that is why I came to sell.”
Sabapathy smiled sarcastically, as if he has found the right person to pass the time with and said, “I know nothing about boxing. See Sekhar in the corner seat? Show it to him.”
Sekhar was the one who can get a loan for anybody in the office. Nobody knew where he got the money from. But he would get a commission of Rs50 for every Rs1000.He had loaned many of his colleagues money during contingencies. He would strictly collect his share on payday.
The man went to Sekhar and showed him the old photograph.
Sekhar looked up at it and asked thoughtfully, “Do you want a death certificate?”
“No, Sir; this is Muhammad Ali.”
“Muhammad Ali means?” Sekhar asked, confused.
“Famous boxing champion; he came to Madras in 1980. He boxed with Jimmy Ellis in front of MGR. My dad was a big boxer in those days; he lost one eye in boxing, but could still fight very well. Muhammad Ali himself had congratulated him. They took this photo when Muhammad Ali was staying in Connemara hotel. There was a huge crowd to see him. My dad was waiting to get his signature on this photo. Muhammad Ali himself took him to his room and signed it for him. My father was thrilled.” he was narrating it like a story.
“Just tell me what you want now,” said Sekhar.
“Please buy this signature. All I want is Rs 500.”
Sekhar did not expect this.
“What am I going to do with this — clean my tongue?” Sekhar asked angrily.
“Do not say that Sir. Muhammad Ali’s signature has value.”
“Let us see how many people in this office know who Muhammad Ali is.” As if taking up a great challenge, Sekhar grabbed the photo from the man and gathered all the office staff in front of him.
Sekhar said in a mocking tone,
“If anyone can correctly identify the man in this photo, I will give the person Rs100.”
One lady asked, “An actor?”
“There is a tailor in my street who looks just like him; his ears are exactly like his,” said Jayanthi.
“Isn’t he the football champion?” asked Mani.
Rangachari was the one who correctly said.
“That is Muhammad Ali, World heavyweight boxing champion. He was born Cassius Clay; he later changed his name to Muhammad Ali.”
“Correct Sir; and it is his signature. At least you can buy this.”
“I do not even have enough time to box with my wife; what am I going to do this? If it was a foreign stamp, at least I could give it to my daughter,” said Rangachari in a mocking voice.
“Do not say that, Sir. I can cut off my father’s picture. Please give me Rs 500,” the man pleaded.
“Five hundred rupees is too much for a signature,” said Rangachari.
“You people demand like that too,” he thought. But he swallowed the thought and said, “If my dad were alive, he would not sell this.”
“It is alright if you want to sell, but where did you come to the taluka office?” asked Rangachari mockingly.
“You are all educated people. I thought you would know the value of this.”
“Forget the signature; you see, even if Muhammad Ali himself comes here, there is no value.” Rangachari laughed automatically, as if he has cracked a joke.
Meanwhile, hearing some footsteps on the stair, peon Munusamy announced that the Tahsildar[2] has arrived.
The safari suit clad Tahsildar Rathinasamy must have noticed the man as he went to his room. He rang the bell as soon as he sat down.
Peon Munusamy hurried into the room.
“Who is that guy standing outside? Is he selling perfume? I told you not to let people like that.”
Munusamy said, “He is not selling perfume, Sir; he came to sell some photo.”
“Ask him to come in,” the Tahsildar said angrily.
The peon told the man who was standing helplessly that the Tahsildar wanted to see him.
The man entered the room slowly.
The Tahsildar asked him with a stern face, “What is this, a marketplace where anyone can walk in and sell stuff? Who are you and why did you come here?”
The man was scared at his anger and hesitantly said, “Muhammad Ali’s signature…photo”
“Ask S1 to come in,” said the Tahsildar angrily.
Sabapathy came.
“Is this a government office or an exhibition? How did you let this man in?”
“We thought he came to give some petition. But he is spinning a yarn about a photograph.”
The Tahsildar said loudly “We should not leave it like this; you call the police. If we grab someone like this, the next one will be afraid to come.”
The man said with a troubled face, “Sorry, sir. I will leave,” he turned to walk out.
“What do you have in your hand? Show it to me.” the Tahsildar asked with the same anger.
The man showed him the photo with Muhammad Ali and his father.
“Did you come to get a donation?”
“No Sir; I came to sell Muhammad Ali’s signature,” he said in a weak voice.
“Don’t you have some other place for that?” the Tahsildar threw the photograph on the table carelessly.
“It is alright sir; just give me the photo; I will leave”
By this time, Rangachari had entered the room and described about Muhammad Ali in fluent English; the Tahsildar listened, only half understanding.
“Who will buy this?”
“There are collectors for this. You can get for 5000, or 10,000 rupees for that.”
“Is that right?”
“Severe money problems at home; that is why I came to sell.” the man repeated.
“What am I going to do if I buy this? I do not even have a place to hang my picture at my home.” the Tahsildar expressed his sense of humour with that statement.
At his juncture, Sekhar came to the office and said, “It is a new type of fraud, Sir. They print a picture off the internet and try to sell it.”
“No Sir. This is my father.”
“Do you have any certificate to prove it?” asked Sekhar.
“Why should I deceive you, Sir,” the man asked pitifully.
“Sekhar is correct. Nowadays, it is difficult to trust anyone; we should be cautious,” said Rangachari.
“Get rid of him and post a notice saying no outside persons are allowed here.” said Tahsildar.
The man took the photograph from the table and placed it in his bag, and walked downstairs.
An old man waiting to submit some petition asked him if the Tahsildar has arrived. He answered yes and left.
It was after three. He felt like fainting because of extreme hunger. The street was hot in the scorching sun. There was no breeze. He walked towards the bus stand to catch a bus to his suburban home.
Suddenly the bag in his hand felt heavy. It sounded as though someone was laughing.
Was that Muhammad Ali laughing?
It was as if his arm was being dragged down by the heavy bag.
He took out the photo and looked at it. His father’s face standing near Muhammad Ali had a unique smile.
He was wondering what he is going to do by taking the photo back to his home.
There was a tar drum standing under the tamarind tree; it was leaking tar. He took out the photo and stuck it on the tar. Muhammad Ali was looking at the street baking in the scorching sun from the photograph stuck to the tar tin.
As if to express his anger, he shrugged off his slippers and started walking barefoot at a fast pace.
The road stretched like the tongue of a strange beast.
S. Ramakrishnanis an eminent Tamil writer who has won the Sahitya Akademi Award in the Tamil Language category in 2018. He has published 10 novels, 20 collections of short stories, 75 collections of essays, 15 books for children, 3 books of translation and 9 plays. He also has a collection of interviews to his credit. His short stories are noted for their modern story-telling style in Tamil and have been translated and published in English, Malayalam, Hindi, Bengali, Telugu, Kannada and French.
Dr.Chandramouli is a retired physician.. He is fluent in English and Tamil. He has done several English to Tamil, and Tamil to English. He has published some of them.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
First published in the collection titled Baethar Daan (Offerings of Pain, 1922), Kazi Nazrul Islam’s short story, Hena, is set against the backdrop of the First World War where the writer himself had fought as a young soldier (1917-1919). It has been translated by Sohana Manzoorand brought out to commemorate Nazrul’s 124th Birth Anniversary.
Nazrul in British Army uniformBaethar Daan or Offerings of Pain book cover
A trench in Verdun,France
This must be what they call rain of fire! And the sounds! The roaring sound of the artillery! Not a speck of blue sky can be seen– as if the whole sky has been set on fire. The thick rain of fire that pours down from the exploding cannonballs and bombs is so intense that if those were real raindrops trickling out of the blue eyes of the sky, the entire world would have been flooded just in a day. And if these sounds that were louder and more intense than any thunderstorm, would continue like this, people’s eardrums would split, turning them deaf. Today, we the soldiers could only recall the song that is sung during Holi celebrations:
“We will play holi with swords today,
All the soldiers of the world are gathered here
Shields playing the trumpets, cannon balls the squirt pumps
Ammunitions are colourful, the battle is intense.”
It is very true that the ammunition has caused the sky and ground to turn completely red. The reddest are the congealed blood on the bayonetted chests of the unfortunate ones! No other colour but red! As soldiers fall one by one, each one a martyr, they lie on the ground, dressed in red like bridegrooms!
Agh! The worst of all is the smoky smell. It is enough to turn your stomach. Are not human beings the best of all creations? Then why have them killed in such ugly and terrifying ways? When the inanimate lead bullets, hit someone’s bones, they explode with a horrid force and tear through the flesh.
If human beings used their intelligence in more productive ways, they could have claimed a place close to the angels. Oh, and this heart-rending thirst! The friend lying next to you, his rifle slipping from his hand, cannot be awakened even if a thousand cannons roar by his ear. No general can ever make him obey his orders. After fighting for seven days at a stretch in this muddy trench he has finally fallen asleep. He is finally at peace! A rare touch of soothing contentment lingers on his cold and dry lips.
But I feel so thirsty. Let me take the water-bottle from his waist and take a sip! I haven’t had a drop since yesterday. No one cared to offer me a drink. Aah…! This one sip feels so sweet! My Lewis gun doesn’t work anymore. It grew tired after days of continuous shooting. I will take the gun of my deceased friend then. If his mother, sister or wife were present here, they would surely have taken his broken skull on their laps and cry their hearts out! Well, I guess, in a few minutes, a heavy shell will land in front of the trench and bury the two of us! It won’t be too bad actually!
It is really funny as I think of the women crying. All of us will die one day, what is there to weep? Death is an eternal truth — why should one grieve over something that is so normal and inevitable?
I am going through so much pain, after receiving so many wounds, but my heart is filled with a demonic joy! I cannot sketch this feeling with this wooden pencil! There is often a joy that lies asleep at the heart of extreme pain which we can’t really feel! And is this habit of writing something bad? I have been swimming in fire, with scores of dead bodies under my feet and bombs dropped from aircraft bursting over my head, artillery shells are exploding and rifle and machinegun bullets are zooming past, still, deep inside, I feel restless because I couldn’t write down my innermost thoughts in the past seven days! But today, I feel relieved that I could start writing again!
Let me rest for a while, leaning against my dead friend. Ah, it feels so good!…
An unknown young girl of this distant land across the sea gave me some pickles and two slices of bread with butter which I haven’t had time to eat… The women of this country look at us with affection and pity! . . . . Ha ha ha, look at the bread here—these are dry and seem roasted! Let’s see if the bread is tougher than my teeth. I have no other option but to eat these — I am so hungry. The pickle is still quite fresh though!
That girl who was thirteen or fourteen (in our country, she would be wedded by now, if not already a mother), put her hands around my neck and kissed me. She said, “Brother, you must drive the enemy out with full force.” I broke into a pure, sad smile.
Ah! I can finally see the sky. A strip of blue sky can be seen behind the mass of heavy clouds. It is so beautiful– like a pair of blue eyes filled with tears! Anyway, I will write down my other thoughts later. The spirit of my dead friend must be mad at me by now. What, my friend, you want a drop of water? See, how he is staring at me! No, my friend, I tell you your beloved is waiting for you with a glass of lemonade in the other world. I would not want to disappoint her, would I?
Ah, I seem to remember so many things today. But no! There’s nothing to remember! These are all lies. Let me pick up the Lewis gun and start shooting. I see some of those who are helping me have stolen a nap!
But there, I can hear the sound of footsteps. They are all marching– left-right-left. That sound is so melodious! Are they coming to relieve us from duty?
Ouch! A moment of distraction has allowed a bullet to bruise my arm! Let me dress it. I hate those nurses. If a woman cares for me without loving me, why should I accept it? Ah! A war shows how killing others can be addictive.
The man who has fallen beside me is far stronger and healthier than me! But I have also seen how one’s mind has more strength than one’s body.
This Lewis gun is shooting about six to seven hundred rounds per minute. If only I could know how many I have killed! But the two Lewis guns here are keeping the enemies confined to their position. You can hear the loud groans of the enemies as they die in droves! The beauty of such youthful deaths is boundless!
A tent at the river Seine, France
I slept for all forty-eight hours of the last two days. And now I have to get dressed for battle and go out to destroy God’s creatures once again. The killing game is the right kind of activity for stone-hearted person like me.
Today that kind girl took me to visit her house… How clean and pretty are the houses here! The girl has clearly fallen in love with me. And I, too, have begun to love her… In our country, people would have said that the girl has gone bad… They would not have liked to see a young girl going out with a young man of twenty or twenty-one.
People look at love in such ugly ways these days! Are these human beings, or vultures? There is so much sin in the world! How did the people become so petty? The sky above is so vast and blue, but beneath the same sky human beings are so mean and narrow-minded!
Fire, you keep raining down! Let the curse of God float downward like frozen chunks of ice… Oh the horn of Israfil[1]! Do blow and immobilize the world! Oh, the thunder of destruction, strike inside the human brains, like the bombs and the artillery shells. And let the entire sky fall on the heads of those people who slander love, and blight the flowers…
If I could dress up one of my countrymen the way I am dressed now, and pushed him down, I am sure he wouldn’t be able to get up, no matter how hard he tried. I am highly amused at my bulky and sluggish appearance.
A ‘wicked’ friend once commented “What pleasing looks!” What a weird adjective! And another one is supposed have said, “The bullock looks like a katla fish!”
A thick forest near Paris, France
All on a sudden, we were sent to this dense forest yesterday. I have no clue why we had to fall back. This is the beauty of military life—an order is given and you are told “Get it done!” You can never ask “Why do I have to do this,” or ask for an explanation. It’s an order –that’s all!”
If I say, “I am going to die,” a stern voice will reply, “As long as you breathe, keep on doing what you are doing, if you fall dead on your right foot while you are marching, let your left foot keep up the pace!”
There is a strange beauty in obeying orders with blind obedience! What tenderness it is that lies at the heart of a thunder! If the entire world could come under one (and only) such military regime, then it would turn out so beautiful that even calling it a heaven on earth would not be enough.
The British nation is so great now because of the discipline they exercise on everything they do. They walk so tall that we can never see the crown of their heads no matter how hard we crane our necks — and let our headgears fall off while doing that! To speak frankly, their empire is like a huge clock that is always correct and faultless. Its two hands run in precision. The clock is oiled every day so there is no speck of rust anywhere.
We were the ones who chased the Germans to the Hindenburg Line and then we had to retreat so far! Only the maker of the clock knows which hand has to move at what pace, but the hands don’t know anything about it. But the hands have to keep ticking because these are continuously driven by a spring from the rear.
We badly need a disciplined, clockwork system like this. This reckless nation of ours really needs to be tied up and disciplined; otherwise, there is no hope of it rising anytime in future! If everybody wants to be the leader, who will do the work?
Oh, the artillery shells raining on us even at this distance! This is really uncanny… The war is being fought so far away but cannon-balls are dropping on us in the forest!
Well, an elephant might think that it is the biggest animal in the world. But even a mosquito can cause it enough trouble through a single bite in its head.
It’s cool in this shady darkness here. How my heart had been yearning for this solace in darkness.
Alas! Darkness seems to trigger in my mind so many fond memories! But, no, let me just climb up the tree and see if any enemy is hiding nearby.
How charming that distant ice-covered river looks from the tree! But there are also some big houses around which shells have torn through, leaving ugly gaping holes! This game of destruction reminds me of my childhood when we used to build clay doll’s houses. After we were done with our play, we used to crush them with our feet and sing:
“We made them gleefully with our hands
We broke them gleefully with our feet!”
The cannon-balls are flying through the air and dropping on distant planes, and from my vantage point, they look like falling stars.
And the sound these fighter planes are making! Oh! The way they are climbing and diving– it looks as if an expert kite flier is maneuvering his fighter-kite to hurtle through the sky in search of a rival. That plane is ours! The German zeppelins look from a distant more like big, flying caterpillars.
Anyway, let me get a bit of pickle out of my haversack. That foreign girl is so far away from me today but the pickle seems to retain her touch! Hell! What am I doing? Why do I keep on thinking of all this gibberish? I don’t need the pain that arises from nowhere and tortures me!
Well, well! What do I see there? A friend of mine is trying to take a nap on that tree. See, he has tied himself with his belt to a branch quite tightly. If he somehow falls in the water below, it will be quite a hassle for him! But then why not? Oh God, let him fall!
Should I shoot a bullet past his ear? Ah, no! Poor thing! Let him sleep awhile. Nobody except me has such hapless eyes that sleep never touches, or a blasted mind like mine which gets sick thinking about the goings on in the world. It’s night – quite deep into the night, I guess! I will have to stay here in this crouching position till dawn…. Perhaps when I am old (if I live that long), the trials I am going through will turn into sweet memories.
The light of the moon, which will turn into a full moon tomorrow night, is creating patterns of light and shadow in the forest below, which make the forest look like a giant cheetah! The heavy, dark clouds over my head are slowly drifting towards some unknown destination. A few drops of cool water fall on my head. Ah, how sad these drops feel! Ah!
The moon is now hidden by a cloud, and now it shoots out and hides behind another cloud! It seems like a game of peekaboo played by beauties living in the glass palace of a king. Who is running in the sky now? The clouds or the moon? I would say the clouds but a simple child might say the moon. Who is right? Aha! How lovely is the play of light and shadow!
What’s that bird cooing in the distance? The delicate tones of the bird songs of this country seem to evoke a sweet laziness… I find them intoxicating.
In this light and shadow, I remember so many things! But the memory is so full of pain.
I recall telling her, “I love you so much, Hena.”
Hena shook her raven black silky hair and replied, “But Sohrab, I haven’t been able to love you.”
That day, the bright saffron flowers seemed to be playing a game to welcome the new day in the garden of Balochistan. Unmindfully, I broke a branch of walnut and collected some flowers from the deodar tree and threw them at her feet.
A few drops of tears trickled down her dark eyes lined with Istanbul kohl! Her face turned redder than her henna dyed hands!
I picked up a bunch of raw plums and threw them at the nightingale sitting in bush of screw pine flowers. The birds stopped singing and few away.
What Human beings think is the closest turns out to be the farthest from them! This is indeed a profound mystery! Hena! Oh Hena! There’s just so much regret…!
Hindenburg Line
Oh! What is this place? I cannot believe that this is an underground land of fairies and monsters! Can a trench built during the wartimes be really as huge as a city full of houses? Who could have imagined this? What a gigantic venture so deep down underground! This is indeed another wonder of the world! One can live as luxuriously as the Nabobs of Bengal in this place!
But I did not come here for the peace it offers! I did not ask for comfort. I only wanted pain and suffering. I am not made for enjoyment and comfort! I would have to seek out another path then. It seems like I found a house under the tamarind tree in trying to escape from tasting sour things.
No, I need to be active. I want to drown myself in work. But this life of comfort here is embarrassing!
I heard that iron turns into steel when it burns in fire. What about human beings? Only ‘baptised’?
Being freed of restraints, my mind has fled again to that room full of grapes and pomegranates! I recall those days again!
“Hena, I’m about to jump into the fire that burns in a free country. I am burning inside, so let my body burn too! Maybe, I will never return. But what means do I have? How do I find travel expenses? How will I live in the foreign land?”
Hena’s henna-dyed fingers trembled like young shoots in my hands. She replied in a clear voice, “But that’s not how your life becomes meaningful, Sohrab! This is only the hot-headed youthfulness! You’re clinging to a lie! There is still time for you to get the message!… See I’ve not been able to love you yet.”
All is empty. Nothing remains. A gusty wind blew through the thick tamarisk trees and cried, “Ah!… Ah!… Ah! When the first battalion of our Baloch Regiment 127 started off for this country from Quetta, one of my friends, a young Bengali doctor, sang while sitting under a pear tree:
“How will you make him return
The one you bade farewell in tears.
In this languid air
At night in the garden
Have you recalled him under the bakul tree?
How will you make him return!
The honeymoon of the full moon
Returns from time to time,
But the one who has gone, does not come back!
Now how will you make him return?”
How weak I am! No wonder I did not want to come to this place. What would I do in this palatial life? Fellows of my regiment think there is no one as carefree and happy as I am. It’s because I laugh a lot. Does anybody know how much blood is hidden in the heart of the henna leaves?
I played “Home sweet home” on the piano and sang along so beautifully that the French were amazed! It was as if we are not human beings and so we cannot do anything as well as them! We have to break such preconceived notions.
Hindenburg Line
What else can I do if there’s no work? I have to find something to do. So last night I crawled for about a couple of miles and cut through much of their wires. Nobody seemed to notice.
My commanding officer said, “You’ll be rewarded for this.”
So, I became a corporal today.
The other day, I met that foreign girl too. She has grown much prettier in these two years! She told me directly that if I had no objection, she would like to have me as her partner! I told her, “That’s impossible!”
I said to myself, “A blind man loses his staff only once. Again? No way. I have had enough.”
The way her blue eyes filled with tears and her bosom heaved made a stone-hearted person like me cry!
She controlled herself and said, “But you’ll allow me to love you? Like a brother at least…?”
I am just a god forsaken wayfarer. So, I showed a lot of interest and replied, “Of course.” Then she left bidding me adieu. She never came back! I can only recall that line, “But the one who has gone does not come back.” Oh!
Anyway, the day was well-spent with the Gurkhas. These Gurkhas were really like big babies. I would not have believed that grown men could be so naive and innocent. These Gurkhas and their brothers-in-law, the Garwhals– both turn into killing machines in the battle field! Each of them turns into a tiger, a “Sher-e-Babbar.” Even the Germans throw away their rifles and run off at the sight of their kukri knives. If these two fighter groups did not exist, we would never be able to achieve this much. Only a handful of them are still alive. Entire regiments of them have perished. Yet, the few of them that are still alive are so full of life, as if nothing has happened!
Nobody can make them understand what great feat they have achieved. And those tall and sturdy Sikhs—what betrayers they have turned out to be! Some shot themselves in the arm and ended up at the hospital.
Look there! There is a battalion ‘march’ going on in the trench. We are marching at the beat of a French band! Left- right-left. A thousand people are all marching at the same pace– all at once. How amazing!
Balochistan
My cottage in Quetta
In the grapevine garden
What happened? I am trying to find out an answer to the question, sitting in this walnut and pear garden. All our Indian soldiers have returned home, and so have I. But how happily did those two years pass by!
I am looking at the blue sky washed by rain, which reminds me of the wide blue eyes of the young French woman. Looking at the mountain-yaks I remember her silky curly hair. And those ripe grapes– aren’t they exactly like the sparkling tears of her eyes?
After becoming an ‘officer’ I also received the title “Sardar Bahadur.” My boss would not let go of me. How could I make him understand that I was not there to form a permanent bond? I did not cross the seas with any high ideals. I only went to purify myself in fire — to hide myself too.
And I never thought I would return here of all places. But I had to– it seems I am tied to this land!
I have no one, I have nothing. And yet I feel, everything is here. Who am I trying to comfort?
I have not hurt anybody; nobody hurt me. Then why was I reluctant to come here? But that’s a matter of unspeakable agony. I can’t articulate it well enough. Hena! Oh! There’s nobody around, still the wind carries the broken echo “na…na”. “No” it is then!
The brook still flows through the hill; only the girl Hena, whose footprints are still etched on the stone-steps, is no longer there. There are so many things lying around that remind me of her soft touch.
Hena! Hena! Hena! Again that echo! Na –Na- Na!
***
I have found her! She is — here. Hena! My Hena! I saw you here today, here in Peshawar! Why do you keep hiding the truth behind those lies? She watched me from a distance and cried. She did not utter a word; she only looked at me and shed tears.
In such meetings, tears are the most articulate language of the heart. She told me again that she could not bring herself to love me. The moment she uttered the word “no” she cried so dejectedly that even the morning air became mournful!
The biggest puzzle in this world is the mind of a woman!
Kabul
Dakka camp
When I heard that the great man Ameer Habibullah Khan had been martyred, I felt that the top of the Hindukush had collapsed! And Suleiman Mountain must have been torn out of its base!
And I wondered what I should do. For ten days, I kept on thinking. It was no easy task!
I decided that I would fight for Ameer. Why? Well, there’s no answer to that question. But let me say candidly that I do not consider the British as my enemy. I have always thought of them as my best friends. But even if I say the reason for my joining the war this time was to protect the weak, even if it meant sacrificing my life, it won’t be quite the right answer. Even I do not understand my own whims!
That morning, someone seemed to have set fire to the pomegranates. They looked bright red! That was perhaps the blood from the hearts of many like me!
The vast sky had just paused after crying incessantly. Its eyes are still misty, so it would start crying again. A broken-hearted cuckoo had also been weeping somewhere, turning its eyes red and its voice rang through the damp winds of the autumnal morning. Someone on the other side of the dried river was playing the Asawari raga[2]on the shehnai. Its notes echoed the doleful cries of a lonely heart. I felt the sadness more than anyone else. The strong smell of henna flowers intoxicated me.
I said, “Hena, I am going to war again, to fight for the Ameer. I won’t come back. Even if I live, I won’t come back.”
Hena buried herself in my chest and cried, “Sohrab, my love! Yes, go wherever you will. Now is the time to tell you how much I love you. I won’t hide the truth anymore. I won’t cause my love further pain….”
I understood. She was a warrior-woman, a daughter of the Afghans. Even though being an Afghan myself I have spent my entire life fighting, she had wanted me to sacrifice my life at the feet of our country. She wanted me to sacrifice my life for our land.
O, the heart of a woman! How could you hide yourself like this? What perseverance! How could such a soft-hearted woman be so tough at the same time?
Kabul
My body has taken five bullets. But until the moment I lost consciousness, I had defended my soldiers with all my strength!
O my God! If protecting my country with my blood makes me a martyr, then I am a martyr.
I came back. Hena followed me like a shadow. How could she hold back so much love that flowed like a rapid tumbling uncontrollably down the mountain with her fragile ribcage!
The Ameer has given me a place in his court. I am one of the commanders of his army.
And Hena? There is Hena, sleeping by my side, clinging to my chest…. Her heart is still fluttering with some unknown fear. Her sighs are still pervading the winds with some dissatisfaction.
The poor girl has also been badly wounded like me! Let her sleep. No, we’ll sleep together. O God — don’t give us any more pain by waking us up from this pleasurable sleep! Hena! Hena! –na—na—Ah!
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[1] The angel who blows the trumpet on the day of judgement in Islam.
[2] A morning raga or melodic composition in the Hindustani classical tradition.
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Kazi Nazrul Islam(1899-1976) was born in united Bengal, long before the Partition. 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.
Sohana Manzoor is an Associate Professor at the Department of English and Humanities at ULAB, a short story writer, a translator, an essayist and an artist.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
LONELINESS
Like a breeze, I tread softly.
Sitting in the spring sun, gazing at the green mountain valley,
Life is truly a lonely thing.
Even with yesterday's memories and tomorrow's hopes,
Even with friends coming and going, amidst the daily bustles,
Living is truly a lonely thing.
All day today, I've been thinking of you.
Is my life lonely because I miss you?
Is this spring day lonely because you're there?
Like a breeze, I walk aimlessly.
Sitting in the grassy field, gazing at the lake's waves,
Even this blossoming season is lonely like this.
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.
Borderless 