Tag: Uk

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Slices from Life

Serendipity in Vietnam

Narrative by Meredith Stephens: Photographs by Alan Noble

Boat which took the author and her husband to Mekong Delta

We alighted from the ferry and disembarked at a small island in the Mekong Delta. Our Vietnamese guide had promised us that we could witness how local people lived. After walking along a trail, we were ushered into a small boat with a local lady at the rear who would row us down the river. We stepped into the back of the boat and another couple stepped into the front.

“Would you mind taking a photo of us?” asked a woman with a bright smile and an energetic voice. I could hear she was English. Then the four of us started bantering and I detected that her partner was English too.

Next, we hopped off the boat and were treated to the chance to hold a cobra, sample local delicacies, and listen to the villagers’ musical performance. The next day we were taken to a restaurant where you could make your own seafood pancakes. Just before lunch, we were given the opportunity to cycle along a nearby path. Those of our group who wished to cycle selected a bicycle. I chose one and headed to the path. Then I looked ahead of me and realised that the English woman’s bike was the wrong size for her.

Cycling tour of the village

“Would you like to swap bicycles? Mine is too large and yours seems to be too small.”

She nodded. We swapped bicycles and seemed to find the perfect match. Our tour guide gave the signal and off we went. After a few kilometres, he signaled to stop so the group would stay together. I found myself at the front of the group and turned around to see the English woman immediately behind.

“I commuted to work by bike for twenty years,” I explained, surprised to be the one who had to stop so the others could catch up.

“I was in Japan. Japan is much friendlier to cyclists. The traffic is slower, and the roads narrower. It’s easier than driving, at least for short distances.”

She nodded. “They cycle a lot in Amsterdam. Also in Cambridge, where I lived for three years.”

I didn’t want to ask too many personal questions of this woman I had only just met, but I was curious. I wondered if she had studied at Cambridge University. Instead of being nosy, I added a few comments about Cambridge.

“We visited there recently. We stayed on the outskirts, and walked in. We had to walk through a park where there were cows grazing with bells around their necks. I much prefer Cambridge to Oxford.”

“Yes, it’s smaller. But Oxford is pretty good too!” she added.

By then the other cyclists had caught up. We continued along the path and then returned for lunch. We resumed the tour and were dropped off back in Ho Chi Minh City.

“Where can we store our luggage?” Alex asked her.

“Here at the tourist agency. We’ll leave ours there while we pop into the markets to get Ian a new backpack. His is broken.”

“Thanks for the tip. By the way, do you have an email address so we can exchange photos?”

“Sure. Where are you heading next?” she asked.

“Hoi An,” she replied.

“Oh! We are going there too. We are doing a cooking class. Would you like to join us?” offered Alex.

“Sure! Send us the link.”

We parted ways.

“See you in Hoi An,” I said, hoping that we could meet again.

The English woman was so easy to talk to, so quick to respond, and pick up on any nuance. I’d already decided that she must be a therapist. I had been trained since early adulthood not to ask people what they did for a living. It wasn’t fair to allow your knowledge of their career success to determine your assessment of them. But I admit to being curious. If she had studied at Cambridge, what career had followed?

Alex and I caught a sleeper train to Hoi An. There we found generously proportioned historic buildings. However, there were too many tourists in Hoi An, people like us. We walked around the town and felt overwhelmed. We could barely move down the street without bumping into other tourists.

Night train
Train station

The next day Alex texted the English woman. He must have been just as eager to meet the couple again as I was.

“Sorry, your cooking class was full. We booked another one. How about drinks this evening?” she replied.

Alex accepted. That evening we made our way to the bar she had suggested. They stood up and hugged us.

“I’m Jill* by the way. And this is Ian*.”

“I’m Alex, and this is Merri.”

We ordered a gin and tonic. They were drinking beer.

“Since we were meeting you today, we thought we’d better order a gin and tonic,” I explained. This drink brought back memories of England.

After we had sipped our drinks, Alex broached the question that was on my mind.

“So, what do you do when you’re not touring in Vietnam?” he asked.

“I write historical fiction. Ian has retired. When the children were younger, he supported me, but now it’s my turn to support him.”

I was beside myself with excitement. If you asked me which profession intrigued me most, I would have said a writer. I have little inclination to meet actors, politicians, astronauts, rocket scientists, or billionaires, but I certainly would like to meet writers (not to mention musicians). For the next couple of hours, Jill shared her experience of writing, and Alex and I shared our experiences of sailing. I was so excited that I lost my appetite and only nibbled a few snacks at the end of the evening. They told us that they lived in a nearly three-hundred-year-old house in Somerset*, one of my favourite places in the UK.

“Just a warning. We will visit,” Alex added.

“Certainly!” replied Jill.

“And please come sailing with us when our boat is ready!” I urged.

We parted company, and I floated all the way back to the hotel. I looked up her many books online and resolved to read her latest one as soon as I could.

A day later, Alex and I caught another sleeper to Hanoi. It was so pleasant rolling along the tracks that I was lulled to sleep as soon as I lay down. I informed Alex that when we returned to Adelaide, I needed a sleep machine that mimicked the motion of rolling along the tracks and provided the accompanying background noise.

When we exited the station a throng of taxi drivers approached us to offer us rides. We had been advised that it is more secure and economical to use the local ride called Grab[1]. I shielded Alex from one driver that persisted in following him around too closely. I positioned myself between Alex and the driver with my back to the driver. Then we looked over and saw a couple laden with suitcases and eyes glued to their phones. The husband made eye contact with me and gave an exaggerated Gallic shrug and I immediately knew they were French. They looked desperate, and I knew I had to put my rusty French to practice. Years of study at the Alliance Francaise did not equip me to use my French in context. French speakers tended to switch to English as soon as I made my opening gambit in French. This was either because my English accent was too strong, or the French speakers wanted to practice their English. However, this time, the urgency of the situation prompted me to use my French.

“Have you tried to use Grab? It’s less expensive,” I informed them.

“We couldn’t install it. We’re trying to contact the hotel. They were meant to pick us up.”

Her husband was persevering on the phone.

“We’re meant to be going home tomorrow,” the wife informed me. “But our flight has been cancelled.”

“Because of the…,” I offered, unable to quickly find the words for ‘Middle East conflict’.

“Because of the…,” she confirmed. She knew what I meant.

“We were here for our anniversaire,” she explained.

I knew that ‘birthday’ is ‘anniversaire’ in French, but as I was scrambling to communicate, I temporarily assumed that it meant its false friend, anniversary.

“How many years?” I asked.

“69 and 64,” she explained.

Whoops! She must have meant birthday. I pointed to Alex. “He’s ten weeks older than me,” I added.

She laughed and then switched to English.

‘Where are you from?” she asked.

She must have known we were anglophones, but not which anglophone country we came from.

“Australia,” I replied.

She was very surprised to hear this. I continued to scramble to make meaningful conversation, sacrificing precision for getting the words out quickly.

“We come from a town that no-one has heard of,” I added in exaggeration, reverting to French. “Our city Adelaide often gets left out when visiting performers and VIPs come to Australia.”

She laughed again. Then Alex saw on his phone that our Grab ride had arrived. We picked up our bags and exited the station.

Alex decided to join in in French.

“Bonne chance,” he said, hoping they would soon find their transport.

“Bon voyage,” she replied.

“Bon voyage,” I echoed.

I felt sorry and guilty as we boarded our Grab outside the station.

The third serendipitous encounter was on our boat tour in Lan Ha Bay. After spending the night on a small cruise ship, we boarded a dinghy to take us to the rowing boats which were to take us to the caves.

Our tour consisted of two Indian couples, two Danish girls, three Russian couples, and a young Australian family of four from the east coast. Each rowing boat seated eight. As Alex and I were lining up to board we were directed to the boat with the three glamorous young Russian couples. I was a bit concerned about how we would converse in the boat. Sitting in silence would be awkward. The only Russian I knew were those words from the media in the ‘80s, perestroika and glasnost. They wouldn’t get us far because these Russians would be too young to remember the times when these words were used. Alex and I averted our gaze, and the tour guide gave up trying to persuade us to board the boat. We turned around and saw the young Australian family lining up behind us. We smiled at them.

“Aussies!” I exclaimed. We had been deprived of conversation with our compatriots for quite a few days.

The six of us hopped in the rowing boat and were taken inside the stunning Lan Ha Bay. I am not sure that our conversation with our compatriots amounted to much, but it was animated and fun, and I hardly had the time to take in the wonderful bay.

Lan Ha Bay

Seeing the sights in other countries is both a privilege and an enormous treat. What is just as exciting is meeting locals, and the random, sometimes fleeting, and yet meaningful encounters with fellow tourists. We may meet Jill and Ian again. We will never meet the French couple again and don’t even know their names. We just hope they made it to their hotel and then safely back to France. We probably won’t meet the young Australian family again either. The east coast is just too far away. Nonetheless, we have been enriched by the knowledge shared by our kind, enthusiastic and energetic Vietnamese tour guides, and the unexpected encounters with fellow tourists trying to navigate this unique culture together.

* Some names have been changed.

[1] A Singaporean company that caters all over Southeast Asia

.

Meredith Stephens is an applied linguist from South Australia. Her recent work has appeared in Syncopation Literary Journal, Continue the Voice, Micking Owl Roost blog, The Font – A Literary Journal for Language Teachers, and Mind, Brain & Education Think Tank. In 2024, her story Safari was chosen as the Editor’s Choice for the June edition of All Your Stories.

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

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

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Categories
Poetry

Carlos by Tony Dawson

Tony Dawson
                 CARLOS

My friend Carlos is an artist of some renown.
He is well-known locally for his sculptures
and life drawings. A star of the Faculty 
of Fine Art, his work is sought after
in Seville where he exhibits frequently.
He is also a character with an impish grin
that reflects his saucy sense of humour.
Janet and I consider him a lovable rogue.
He is obviously enamoured of my wife,
although he presents no threat at all
because he’s queer and is just teasing me.
Every time we run across each other,
he promises to leave me a piece of his art
with one of his shopkeeper friends
as a token of his esteem. I’m still waiting…

Tony Dawson, an 89-year-old English writer, lives in Seville and has published widely in the USA, UK, Canada and Australia since he took up writing during the pandemic.

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

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

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Categories
Excerpt

Love and Crime in the Time of Plague

Title: Love and Crime in the Time of Plague: A Bombay Mystery

Author: Anuradha Kumar

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

Maya is Discomfited

What shall we talk about?’ Maya asked in her irrepressible way, a lilt in her voice. That afternoon she was out cycling with Henry when the rain came down, turning heavy in moments. It was August and the middle of the monsoon season.

‘Tell me more about what you found. More about those…mysterious sketches. You have two minutes,’ Henry rolled his eyes playfully as he pulled out his watch.

Dark, thick clouds loomed over the sea and gathered by the palm trees and rocks lining the shore. Leaving their bicycles against the tall, old Ashoka tree, they had run, like many times before, toward the old Prong’s lighthouse to their right. Its white walls were damp-streaked and moss-stained, and the grey rocks huddled by it were dotted by foamy flecks. The sea swirled in noisily with an insistent rhythm.

They stood on the low stoop, looking out at the gravestones across the road. The door behind, blue paint flaking in places, creaked in the wind. The room in the old lighthouse always smelt musty. It was sparsely furnished with wooden chairs, a table, and a cupboard. Faded red curtains fluttered on the windows. A part of the roof near the fireplace leaked, and rainwater often dripped down into a large wooden tub. Soon, Henry always joked, it would fill up with fish. The keeper, an old Eurasian, waved to them from an upstairs window, his beard flailing through its rusting iron bars.

They were right at the tip of the city on the island of Colaba, and the new bicycles—shipped to Henry only that summer—were safe to ride on, with their evenly spaced wheels, pneumatic tyres, and a chain system. Henry was pleased with these new ‘Rover’ cycles, made by a company in Chicago, Henry’s home town. The wind left a mist on their faces, the gulls were noisy on the rafters, and they waited for the rain to ease.

The Causeway, its white stones grey in the wan light, stretched to the mainland. Built some fifty years ago, it now connected what had been the separate islands of Colaba, and the Old Woman’s Island to the bigger island of Bombay. If they craned their necks and looked to the left, through the palm trees, the stone walls of the old fort were clearly visible.

Henry took his cap off, twirled it with his fingers then placed it back on his head. Maya scraped the soles of her muddy boots against the stoop, and leaned against the door. They heard a sharp clear call, two eagles were majestically scouring the skies, their wings spotted white, and lighting up when the sun momentarily breathed through the clouds.

‘You’ve been thinking about the sketches, haven’t you?’

Maya nodded, her eyes the colours of the stormy sea. The eagles, she was thinking, maybe they were the White-bellied Sea Eagles familiar to these parts.

‘Tell me about it,’ Henry encouraged, stealing a look upstairs, and noting the open window. The keeper was probably all ears. They were always the subject of gossip, and Henry ruefully accepted this, always with a turmoil in his heart. He enjoyed Maya’s company and tried not to think too much of the future; most times he failed. Sometimes he thought Maya felt the same way.

~

Maya had found the sketches only a fortnight ago. In a room, dark, mysterious and unused, at the very back of the grey-stone ‘doctors’ house’ where Maya lived. She had wanted to use the room as a study. The doctors’ house stood on a narrow lane leading off the Colaba Causeway, on the sliver of land where Bombay stretched into the sea in a crab-like way. One walked through the house’s main hallway, and the study appeared after a series of small steps. Next to the study was the covered courtyard and on the left, its lone window faced the garden, with its wooden latticed fence, the bougainvillea and oleander creepers, and tall palm trees. Farther beyond, closer to the sea, lay the asylum and a part of the lighthouse, always visible from the upper floor windows of the doctors’ house. Sounds of the horse-drawn tramcars, the bells of the Afghan Church, the train coming in every morning and in the late afternoon, and the constant rolling of the sea, shaped a pleasing backdrop to everyday life in the house.

Once owned by Hormuzji Dorabji, a merchant whose business interests spread across Bombay, Surat, East Africa and Natal, the doctor Edith Pechey had first rented it when she came to Bombay to manage the city’s first women’s hospital. Soon there were two of them, when Charlotte Ellaby responded to Edith’s invitation, and that was how the bungalow got its name. Then about two years ago, though Maya felt it was much longer, the doctors’ house had a new resident when Maya joined them, a few weeks after reaching Bombay as part of a travelling theatre troupe from Lahore. The troupe soon moved on to another city, but Maya had stayed back. For a while only, she had thought at first, but months had flown by and the ‘doctors’ house’ was her home now. Edith had moved out when she married Herbert Phipson, an American businessman with offices in Bombay, and Maya still stayed on with Charlotte. Finding her feet in a city, warm and lively. Finding her heart too, but with that Maya wanted to take more time.

~

For Maya, the string-bound folder with the sketches was an unexpected find. It lay in the old wooden almirah, lost among dusty old account ledgers, old books, in old Pali and Persian, and crinkled maps brown with age.

‘They look so old, and so skilfully done.’ Henry still remembered the awed expression on Maya’s face the afternoon she told Charlotte and him about it. They had shared Maya’s delight, looking at the sketches—lifelike depictions of birds, drawn mainly in black ink, with distinct colours on some.

(Excerpted from Love and Crime in the Time of Plague: A Bombay Mystery by Anuradha Kumar. Published by Speaking Tiger Books, 2025)

ABOUT THE BOOK

It is 1896. A ship docks in Bombay Harbour, and as the workers rush to unload the cargo, a scream rings out. A large black rat, frothing at the mouth, has bitten one of the men.

Within weeks, a miasma of fear engulfs the city as ship-borne rats overrun its nooks and crannies, and more and more of its inhabitants fall sick—and die. Dr Acacio Viegas is the first to ring the alarm—it is the plague. The only way to control it is to sanitize the city’s slums, clean its drains, report any fever, and stay at home. The British Administration embarks on these measures on a war footing—until warning notes begin to turn up at Doctors’ House, where Maya Barton lives with Dr Charlotte Ellaby, and at the Women’s and Children’s Hospital—notes that threaten those who are ‘interfering’ with people’s religion and customs with dire consequences—all signed by the ‘Native Society’.

Maya and her friend Henry Baker, the American trade counsel, are soon hot on the trail of the Society, which leads them to the formidable Rangnekar Bhau, the Society’s founder, and its Secretary, the treacherous Satarkar, who hates everything new and ‘modern’, whether the British and the brown sahibs, and their so-called anti-plague drive, or women like Maya, who think too much of themselves.

As Maya and Henry unravel the mystery, they draw closer to each other and to what could be a future together. And Maya learns more about Reverend Barton, who could have been her father, and the Kashmiri woman who might have been her mother.

Anuradha Kumar once again uses her talent for recreating a period setting and engaging characters to brilliant effect in this sequel to the acclaimed The Kidnapping of Mark Twain, her first Bombay Mystery.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Anuradha Kumar has worked for the Economic & Political Weekly. She has an MFA in Writing from the Vermont College of Fine Arts (VCFA). Her stories have won awards from the Commonwealth Foundation, UK, and The Little Magazine, India. She writes regularly for Scroll.in. Her stories and essays have appeared in publications like Fiftytwo.in, The India Forum, The Missouri Review, among others. Two of her essays received notable mention in ‘Best American Essays’ editions of 2023 and 2024. Her essay collection, The Sound of Lost Memories, was recently a finalist for the Gournay Prize (University of Iowa) and will be published (2027) by Cornerstone Press (University of Wisconsin, Stevens-Point).

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Categories
Musings of a Copywriter

Demolition Drives… for Awards?

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

From Public Domain

Belated realisation that it played a key, though passive, role in the demolition of homes owned by minority communities generated a sense of remorse. So much so that it has now chosen to demolish what was an item of proud display inside its own home. Whether this fall-out is entirely an act of atonement or just a far-sighted move to avoid tons of rubble of its own reputation built over the years is a matter of speculation at this point. So long as the earth-moving juggernaut refuses to explain whether it has also embarked on a search for the meaning of life, quite like Lorenzo[1], the façade of credibility will continue to be bull-dozed by carping critics and authors.

The three alphabets of its brand name, sounding strikingly similar to ABC, facilitate quick, easy recall of its association with acts of destruction deemed legal though held morally incorrect and interpretative[2]. With images of the demolition drives flashing across various media channels, one name that stands readable is that of the behemoth monster employed and operated to execute controversial missions. While there are domestic brands for everything, this foreign giant emerges as the clear favourite in the construction business. Delivering targets with agility and precision is what has portrayed the entity in bad light. The crushing potential has built the negative brand image that cannot be demolished now. Usually, brands are switched when they do not meet the needs, but in this case, its preferred status due to super performance has wrecked its brand image. Ironical, isn’t it?

The intellectual voices remain shrill, signing letters to lampoon the role of the company in destroying homes and building literary careers. These contradictions cannot go together is the common refrain. Is there any sane voice to enlighten writers that the company does not sponsor the destruction of homes and it cannot insert any clause before product sale to prohibit its use in the razing of homes with it? Surely, they know a manufacturer has no control over how its product will be used or misused. On this count, the corporate shenanigan cannot be held responsible.

Literature gives space to all – including criminals and gangsters – to tell stories and many such memoirs gain legitimacy as works of art later. Misled folks, misfits, and all sorts of misleading characters enjoy the freedom to enter the world of books in some form or the other. If an underworld don decides to set up a chain of brick-and-mortar bookstores and launch a publishing house, the reaction of published authors is a predictable boycott. The literary world that boasts of freedom of speech for all is much likely to shrink and apply the moral compass to ensure its ouster even if the intent of the new entrant is reformist. The world of writing should be, ideally speaking, like a place of worship where the identity of a visitor or his background does not matter when he bows before the Lord.

When a large group of authors come together to use the collective power of the pen to dismantle the role of an award sponsor and question its right to distribute such awards, there is not much the corporate player can do to remain engaged in it. The prize tried to promote writers and writing, not just English but other regional languages, and the hefty prize money enabled many winners to earn a decent income from the job of writing. Now the critical authors seem to rejoice that their objections have been powerful enough to make the company do a rethink or at least for the time being stay out of the awards game. One hopes the protesting writers also launch a similar drive against respected awards that have ignoble connections — many of which they have also competed for or served as a jury member. 

The winners and shortlisted authors of this prize will have nice memories of its brief existence, and they will credit it for bringing regional writers to global limelight. There is another side of this story that requires focus. With Indian regional writers also winning the much bigger and more prestigious International Booker prize (two winners in five years), the unique distinction for bringing regional literature to the global platform gets shared unequally between the two prizes. It cannot champion itself as the sole promoter of Indian languages and literature anymore. That the apparently defunct prize was the first one to give a major boost to Indian regional literature is its solid, solitary achievement that should not be brushed aside on account of the recent episodes of misuse of its quality products. 

Whether the discontinuation is permanent or temporary will be clear within a year – in case the company makes a formal announcement regarding its fate. Till then, speculation gathers froth that the award will have a new avatar and broaden its range and reach to align with the expansive mindset of the flagship corporate brand. As a British major, it is already a force to reckon with in developing countries and it would probably not like to disassociate itself from the world of literature forever. But in case it has already decided to give the prize a silent burial, the voices of dissent will also go down the same path. With some more awards calling it the end of their journey, there is a lot of suspense in the story that will unfold over a period of time.

Many governments the world over have committed atrocities but they continue to be associated with prestigious awards. The sheen of respectability for decades seems to carry global acceptance. For new entrants in literature or cinema, a litmus test is always involved. When there is so much flak to face, to pass the test of time, to prove purity in earnings and non-involvement in fraudulent activities, one thing emerges quite clearly: the new awards cannot beat the veteran ones even if they are tainted.

In such a murky, unequal scenario, isn’t it better to demolish all awards? Awards were set up to recognise talent, to make the tough journey easy with encouragement and monetary compensation. But awards have failed in their objective and turned creative people into chronic fame-seekers. Once it goes out of the system forever, writers will realise they have to write well to be read more. If they do not earn handsome royalty, they will have to pursue some other jobs for a living. This hard truth should be crystal clear. There’s no ray of hope that a big award will come their way to take care of their pension needs.

Writing is addictive because those who want to write will write irrespective of whether there is money or agony. Many classics that are read today have never won any award – because there were no awards to contest and win. Many great authors have produced masterpieces but they never had trophies to display as a mantlepiece.  A return to such a perfect world will demolish the false gods of literary stardom.

.

[1] Lorenzo Searches for the Meaning of Life by Upamanyu Chatterjee was given the JCB award in 2024. Funded by a construction company, (Joseph Cyril Bamford from UK),  the award was started in 2018 and closed down in 2025.

[2] News reports from Guardian, in Business and Human Rights Resource Centre

Devraj Singh Kalsi works as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.  

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

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

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Categories
Stories

Going to meet the Hoppers

By Fiona Sinclair

The announcement of a ‘major retrospective’ sent Alice’s friends giddy with excitement. Reviews in The Guardian raved.  The five stars awarded barely seeming adequate.  

Alice remained silent. In truth she had never heard of the American artist. Her tastes were more European; Turner, Vermeer, Caravaggio.

Some friends raced to become early bird visitors. They had joined queues like static conga lines and came away gushing with praise.  But to Alice, the Hoppers became like an irritating family, who mutual friends declared “You will love’.  However past experience had taught her that when introduced, she had found no common ground.

“We must put it on the list,” declared Julia.  Her closest friend and partner for any such cultural initiatives.  Julia hated finding herself on the back foot at parties when the latest event was mulled over by guests who had already taken it in.

Alice nodded noncommittally, changed the subject by drawing attention to a stylish pair of shoes in a store window.  

Fortnightly visits to the Maudsley psych hospital in southwest London had become routine to her now. A years’ worth of psychotherapy was succeeding in untangling her past. She no longer entered the outpatients with eyes fixed on the squares of carpet tiles. A ploy in those early days to avoid any interaction with the human flotsam that mental health had beached in the waiting room.

But over time she saw that this was a place where calmness was carefully curated. Pictures of flowers bloomed on the walls.  The décor was always spruce and the staff — from receptionists to psychiatrists — treated the patients, however ramshackle, with respect.  

Now she and her therapist Margaret would chit chat as key codes where punched into pads, in order to gain admittance to each level of the labyrinthine building. The sounds like birds of prey that issued from the acute wing no longer made her start.

This particular Monday morning, her appointment was at a bleary eyed 8 am. Fine if she lived in London — however she was a two hours train ride away so her alarm clock blared reveille at 5 am.

Her session was finished by nine. “You’ve got the rest of the day to yourself,” Margaret remarked as she shouldered the final door whose second line of defence seemed to be that it always stuck.  Alice was at a loss as to how to spend this time. London brimmed with museums and galleries, but nothing tempted her. “You know what Dr Johnson said,” grinned her therapist.

“When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life,” responded Alice. “Probably not the best sentiments to quote in Maudsley,” they both agreed.

Since the peak hour ticket had been expensive Alice felt the outlay should reward her with more than counselling. She was not in the mood for aimless shopping.  But scrolling from memory through the current exhibitions, she found there was a dearth, except of course for the Hoppers at the Tate. It was a short tube ride away. “Well there’s always cappuccino and cake in the café afterwards.” She consoled herself.

On the Victoria line, as the train jolted to a halt at each station, her carriage never fully aligned with hoardings that trumpeted the event. And as the tube accelerated away, she only got a zoetrope impression of images that did nothing to ignite her enthusiasm.

“If it’s crowed,” she decided, “I won’t bother.” Envisaging hordes of retirees, school parties and tourists mobbing the entrance, all waiting for 10am like a starting gun.

In truth most exhibitions only admitted a hundred or so visitors every hour. But even so,  from past experience, she knew there would be a funeral pace past each picture as if it was laying in state.

Alice blamed those headphones that explained each painting down to the final daub. Visitors planted themselves in front of the picture until the recording told them to move onto the next image. “Just look and form your own opinion,” she would mutter whilst craning to catch a glimpse of the artwork.

The Thames accompanied her towards the Tate. There was a Monday morning feeling in this part of London, as if the area was drawing breath after a busy weekend. The district was dedicated to tourism with The Globe and The Turner being near neighbours.

The gallery was housed in a decommissioned power station designed by the architect Sir Giles Gilbert Scot, in a time when even functional buildings were given an aesthetic flourish. The conversion to art gallery had retained the original deco building but also made sympathetic modern additions. The brickwork was cleaned back to its original red and the towering chimney advertised itself on the London skyline.

With the internal machinery removed, the empty core allowed for spacious galleries ideal for art on an ambitious scale. The turbine hall alone was so vast that it dwarfed the escalators that bore visitors up to the galleries. Here even Michelangelo’s’ 17 ft David would look lonely.

Alice was quite accustomed to taking herself off to the cinema, theatres, exhibitions alone. Most of her friends were married, therefore had commitments. She was often too impatient to wait whilst they managed the logistics of their domestic lives, to find time to accompany her.

There was a freedom in being on her own, a spontaneity that meant she could hop on a train, and head to London whenever she felt inclined.

Friends found her ease at flying solo incomprehensible. “You’re so brave,” they would remark in tones that simultaneously managed to be admiring but also patronising, “I could never do anything like that on my own.”

“It’s practice,” she would explain. As an only child she had grown up used to her own company. Moreover, without a partner now, the fact was if she wanted the rich cultural life she craved, Alice had to take matters into her own hands.

Over time she had developed strategies that gave her confidence. Aware that even in the 21st , a single woman going to the theatre or cinema on her own still  garnered curious glances, she was, therefore, always accompanied by a book.

Arriving at the Tate’s ticket desk, Alice was surprised to find only a dribble of people. 10 am on a Monday morning was apparently too early even for the keenest of visitors.

Consequently, with extraordinary timing she had the luxury of being the only person in the exhibition. Grinning at her good fortune she placed herself in the centre of the largest room. She then made a 360 degrees turn to get an overview of the Hoppers before moving in on specific images that beckoned to be examined.

What she saw utterly contradicted her preconceptions of the artist and his work. These were not the cosy representations of American life she had expected.  

Human loneliness was delineated in every scene. There were no cosy family meals or girlfriends gossiping. Indeed, these people seemed to possess no faculty for laughter. Married couples who had run out of things to say to each other long ago, now gazed off into their own private horizons.  Solitary men sat on stoops smoking with blank expressions as if they had given up on thinking. Many eyes were cast down, or concealed beneath hats, so that all emotional cues were transferred to their body language whose droop spoke of hopelessness.

This despair was not confined to cityscapes. There were landscapes too, where forests growled at the edges of civilisation, and unkept grass prowled up to the stoops of solitary white wooden houses. These homes were personified as if conveying by proxy the emotions the characters in other pictures could not. Doors screamed and windows gaped.

Above all she had never seen an artist paint silence so effectively. It emanated from the pictures, seeming to seep into the gallery itself. 

In all the years of visiting exhibitions she had never seen one that reflected back her own experience of life. The images did not bring her mood down rather she felt exhilarated that she was able to look these pictures in the face without flinching.  

Alice returned home buzzing with a convert’s zeal. As a result, her friend hastily cleared a Saturday. She farmed her kids off to their cousins for the day and left a ready meal for her husband in the fridge. Of course, Alice was champing to revisit the exhibition, although she was savvy enough to understand that she would never be able to recreate the timely conditions or the wonder she had experienced on first seeing the pictures.

The two women arrived at the gallery early enough for there to be a lunchtime lull.  From past experience she knew her friend did not work her way methodically through an exhibition but liked to see the artist’s greatest hits first. Juila made for the voyeuristic 

‘Night Windows’, where a woman is observed in a bedsit,  her back to an open window from which curtains billow, a favoured image for fridge magnets and coasters.

Alice felt the same rush of enthusiasm for the pictures. She was desperate to enjoy again images that had particularly affected her, but good manners tethered her to Julia’s side. Nevertheless, she could not help breathlessly pointing out details in ‘Night Windows’ that had struck her before. Alice’s words tumbled out in her desire to share the image with her friend. However, Julia seemed to have left her enthusiasm with her coat in the cloakroom. She regarded the painting in silence. Alice grimaced inwardly wondering if her effusiveness was deterring her friend so turned off her gush of words.

Julia still did not engage with this painting or indeed any others. She paused before each image briefly without comment. Alice trailed behind her at a loss. She wondered if her friend had suddenly become unwell. There was a precedent for this when she had once passed out from a UTI at the theatre. And she knew her friend well enough that if she hated an exhibition, she was quick to speak her mind.

“Are you feeling okay?” she whispered.

“I’m fine,” Julia responded. But the ‘fine’ was loaded with a subtext Alice could not at that moment fathom.

Julia stood briefly before the artist’s other well-known pictures as if mentally ticking them off.  Alice desultorily picked out a detail here and there like offering titbits to someone who had lost their appetite. Her friend merely nodded or squeezed out a ‘hmmm’.

From her peripheral vision the paintings she ached to enjoy again beckoned to her. Finally, she made her way to them, hoping that by giving her friend some space she might find some way into the works. However, looking over her shoulder she saw Juia had begun to move past the paintings without pausing, barely glancing at the images. Eventually feeling as if she was abandoning her friend at a party of strangers she returned to her side. They had reached ‘Night Hawks’. “Surely she’ll respond now,” she thought. Her friend did but not with appreciation, instead she raised her hand to her eyes as if shielding her gaze. Alice was reduced to foolishly gesturing ‘the famous one’ as if trying to chivvy a child’s interest.

“Well I think we’ve seen enough,” Julia suddenly found her voice again, “Let’s get out of here.”  And without waiting for Alice, she bolted through the exit and plonked herself in a comfy armchair in the coffee shop and took a deep breath as if the atmosphere in the gallery had tried to choke her. In an effort to raise her friend’s spirits, Alice brought her a double shot cappuccino and a slab of cake. Seated by a large picture window looking down on the Thames, Alice commented on a few landmarks by way of breaking the silence. It was still a one-way conversation though until revived by the food, Julia began to join in.

Clearly there was not to be their usual post event discussion.  This was unprecedented. They could not even agree to disagree as they had many times before if they could not even discuss the exhibition.   During this smallest of small talk, Alice tried to make sense of her friend’s reaction. She began to feel as if she had forced Julia to accompany her. Then remembered it was actually her friend’s agency that had brough them to the Tate. Reasoning to herself that they couldn’t spend the rest of their lives avoiding all reference to the Hoppers she brushed the small talk aside, took a breath and blurted out, “Did you not like the exhibition?”

Julia paused before speaking, “Look, I know you love them but for me, there was no beauty in there.” She gestured with her head towards the gallery they had come from. “They are so dreary.” Her tone verged on whining as if the exhibition had got her there under false pretences. Alice was quick to point out that they had seen other exhibitions genuinely devoid of conventional beauty  — Rothko, Warhol, Gilbert and George. None of whose work could have comfortably inhabited a sitting room.

“But I know what to expect with abstract art,” her friend pointed out.  “I can stomach geometric shapes and dribbled paint because they engage my mind not my emotions,” she paused, “also somehow they don’t reflect real life.” The caffein had clearly loosened her tongue. “I expect at least some beauty in representational art.” She began to list Hopper’s faults. “Why are there so few people in the city? It looks post-apocalyptic. And they are so miserable. That picture of the psycho house seems to sum up the whole collection.” She added as a last shot.

Alice felt as if her friend’s criticism was aimed at her as well as the artist. She attempted to put her case for the paintings. “But don’t you see that they reflect the isolation of modern life?” Her friend’s face remained adamant. Alice searched for a comparison then had a brain wave, “Look’ we both studied TS Eliot at uni. Can’t you see it’s ‘The Waste Land’ translated into art?” She felt rather pleased with her analogy.

But Juila shook her head. “You can distance yourself from words, but pictures,” she grimaced. “Nothing erases an image, once seen it gets trapped in your mind.”

Alice pondered the two divergent responses to the Hoppers. Both were extreme in their own ways. She wondered if the roots of their reactions lay in their backgrounds. Her own history, even her therapist agreed, verged on the Gothic. Whereas Julia had enjoyed an Enid Blyton childhood. Throughout her life she had been adored by her father and encouraged by her mother. Her marriage to Jim was that rare thing, a pairing that lasted without a whiff of infidelity. Admittedly their life together had not been entirely charmed — ill health, a father’s dementia — redundancy had been faced down over time. Now their reward was a very comfortable life.

Her friend seemed to have read her thoughts. “I know I have a good life compared to most,” Juila admitted. “And I know there’s ugliness in the world. I just don’t want to be reminded of it on a day out.” 

Alice began to understand that the pictures were an uncomfortable reminder of less kind lives. Whilst they were not in the face brutality of war, instead they showed men and women recognizably modern whose lives were the playthings of circumstance and as such had visibly given up.

They seemed to have awakened some existential fear in her friend, perhaps a dread of feeling hopeless. The Hoppers were a reminder that even middle-class lives could falter and fall if fate gave a push.

Julia suddenly changed the subject with a hand brake turn. She gave a round up of her daughters’ careers and love lives, her husband’s progress on the kit car he was building. She seemed in this way to be deploying her family as a buffer against the images she had just seen.  

Making for the exit, it was usually part of their ritual to visit the gift shop. But whilst Alice turned to enter, eager to buy more Hopper related merchandise, Juila swept passed deep in describing  the minutiae of her family’s next trip to Italy . Alice shrugged, “I’ll pop in next time,” she thought.

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 Fiona Sinclair has had several collections of poetry published by small presses.  Her short stories have been published in magazines in the UK, US and Australia. 

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

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Amazon International

Categories
Greetings

Happy Birthday Borderless

Borderless Journal started on March, 14, 2020. When the mayhem of the pandemic had just set in, we started as a daily with half-a-dozen posts. Having built a small core of writings by July, 2020, we swung to become a monthly. And we still continue to waft and grow…

Art by Sohana Manzoor

We like to imagine ourselves as floating on clouds and therefore of the whole universe. Our team members are from multiple geographies and we request not to be tied down to a single, confined, bordered land. We would welcome aliens if they submitted to us from another galaxy…

On our Fifth Anniversary, we have collected celebratory greetings from writers and readers stretched across the world who share their experience of the journal with you and offer suggestions for the future. We conclude with words from some of the team, including my own observations on being part of this journey.

Aruna Chakravarti

Heartiest congratulations to Borderless on the occasion of its fifth anniversary! Borderless, an international journal, has the distinction of carrying contributions from many eminent writers from around the world. From its initiation in 2020, it has moved from strength to strength under the sensitive and skillful steering of its team. Today it is considered one of the finest journals of its kind. I feel privileged to have been associated with Borderless from its very inception and have contributed substantially to it. I wish to thank the team for including my work in their distinguished journal. May Borderless move meaningfully towards the future and rise to greater and greater heights! I wish it every success.

Professor Fakrul Alam

Five years ago, when Borderless set out on its literary voyage, who would have imagined the length and breadth of its imaginative crossings in this span of time? The evidence, however, is digitally there for any reader who has seen at least some of its issues. Creative writing spanning all genres, vivid illustrations, instant links giving resolute readers the option to track a contributor’s creative voyaging—here is boundless space always opening up for those seeking writing of considerable variety as well as originality. The best part here is that unlike name-brand journals, which will entice readers with limited access and then restrict their spaces unless you subscribe to them, all of Borderless is still accessible for us even though it has attracted a wide readership in five years. I certainly hope it will stay that way.

And what lies ahead for Borderless? Surely, more opportunities for the creative to articulate their deepest thoughts and feelings in virtual and seemingly infinite space, and innumerable avenues for readers to access easily. And let us hope, in the years to come Borderless will extend itself to newer frontiers of writing and will continue to keep giving space to new as well as emerging writers from our parts of the world.

May the team of Borderless, continue to live up to their claim that “there are no boundaries to human imagination and thought!”

Radha Chakravarty

Since its inception, Borderless Journal has remained true to its name, offering a vital literary space for writers, artists and scholars from around the world to engage in creative dialogue about their shared vision of a world without borders. Congratulations Borderless, and may your dream of global harmony continue to inspire.

Somdatta Mandal

According to the famous Chicana academic and theorist Gloria Anzaldua, the Borderlands are physically present wherever two or more cultures edge each other, where peopIe of different races occupy the same territory, where under, lower, middle and upper classes touch, where the space between two individuals shrinks with intimacy. Hatred, anger and exploitation are the prominent features of this landscape. There, at the juncture of cultures, languages cross-pollinate and are revitalized; they die and are born. Borders are set up to define the places that are safe and unsafe, to distinguish us from them. A border is a dividing line, a narrow strip along a steep edge. A borderland is a vague and undetermined place created by the emotional residue of an unnatural boundary. It is in a constant state of transition. The prohibited and forbidden are its inhabitants.

About five years ago, when a new online journal aptly called Borderless Journal was launched, these ideas which we had been teaching for so long were simply no longer applicable. Doing away with differences, with limits, it became a suitable platform where disparate cultures met, where people from all disciplines could express their views through different genres, be it poetry, translation, reviews, scholarly articles, creative writing and so on. Many new writers from different parts of the world became regular contributors to this unique experimentation with ‘borderlessness’ and its immense possibilities are very apt in this present global context where social media has already changed many earlier notions of scholarship, journalism, and creativity.

Jared Carter

In its first five years Borderless has become an important witness for international peace and understanding. It has encouraged submissions from writers in English based in many different countries, and has offered significant works translated from a wide range of national literatures. Its pages have featured writers based in India, Pakistan, China, Taiwan, Japan, South Korea, Australia, the UK, and the US. In the future, given the current level of world turmoil, Borderless might well consider looking more closely toward Africa and the Middle East. As the magazine continues to promote writing focused on international peace and freedom, new horizons beckon.

Teresa Rehman

The best part of this journal is that it is seamless and knows no margins or fringes. It is truly global as it has cut across geographical borders and has sculpted a novel literary genre called the ‘borderless’. It has climbed the mountains of Nepal, composed songs on the Brahmaputra in Assam, explored the hidden kingdom of Bhutan, walked on the streets of Dhaka, explored the wreckage of cyclones in Odisha, been on a cycling adventure from Malaysia to Kashmir, explored a scenic village in the Indo-China border, taken readers on a journey of making a Japanese-Malayalam dictionary, gave a first-hand account of the war in Bosnia-Herzegovina and described the syncretic culture of Bengal through its folk music and oral traditions. I hope it continues telling the untold and unchartered stories across mountains, oceans and forests.

Kirpal Singh

In a world increasingly tending towards misunderstandings across borders, this wholesome journal provides a healthy space both for diverse as well as unifying visions of our humanity. As we celebrate five distinguished years of Borderless Journal, we also look forward to another five years of such to ensure the underlying vision remains viable and visible as well as authentic and accurate.

My heartfelt Congratulations to all associated with this delightful and impressive enterprise!

Asad Latif

The proliferation of ethnic geographies of identity — Muslim/Arab, Hindu/Indian, Christian/Western, and so on — represents a threat to anything that might be called universal history. The separation and parcelling out of identities, as if they are pre-ordained, goes against the very idea (proclaimed by Edward Said) that, just as men and women create their own history, they can recreate it. Borders within the mind reflect borders outside it. Both borders resist the recreation of history. While physical borders are necessary, mental borders are not. This journal does an admirable job in erasing borders of the mind. Long may it continue to do so.  

Anuradha Kumar

I have been one of Borderless’ many readers ever since its first issue appeared five years ago. Like many others, I look forward with great anticipation to every issue, complete with stories, , reviews, poems, translations, complemented with interesting artwork. 

Borderless has truly lived up to its name. Within its portal, people, regardless of borders, but bound by common love for literature, and the world’s heritage, come together. I would wish for Borderless to scale even greater heights in the future. As a reader, I would very much like to read more writers from the ‘Global South’, especially in translation. Africa, Asia and Australasia are host to diverse languages, many in danger of getting lost. Perhaps Borderless could take a lead in showcasing writers from these languages to the world. That would be such an invaluable service to readers, and the world too.   

Ryan Quinn Flanagan

To me, Borderless Journal is a completely free and open space.  Topics and styles are never limiting, and the various writers explore everything from personal travelogues to the limp of a helpful druggist.  Writers from all corners of the globe contribute, offering a plethora of unique voices from countless circumstances and walks of life. Because of this openness, Borderless Journal can, and likely will continue to grow and expand in many directions simultaneously.  Curating and including many new voices along the way.  Happy 5th Birthday to a truly original and wonderfully eclectic journal!

George Freek

I feel the Borderless Journal fills a special spot in the publishing world. Unlike many journals, which profess to be open-minded and have no preference for any particular style of poetry, Borderless actually strives to be eclectic. Naturally, it has its own tastes, and yet truly tries to represent the broad spectrum which is contemporary poetry. I have no advice as to where it should go. I can only say keep up the good work, and stooping to a cliche, if it’s not broken, why try to fix it?

Farouk Gulsara

They say time flies when one is having fun. It sure does when a publication we love regularly churns out its issues, month after month, for five years now.

In the post-truth world, where everybody wants to exert their exclusivity and try to find ways to be different from the person standing next to them, Borderless gives a breath of fresh air. At a time when neighboring countries are telling the world they do not share a common history, Borderless tries to show their shared heritage. We may have different mothers and fathers but are all but “ONE”! 

We show the same fear found in the thunderous sounds of a growling tiger. We spill the exact hue of blood with the same pain when our skin is breached. Yet we say, “My pain is more intense than yours, and my blood is more precious.” Somehow, we find solace in playing victimhood. We have lost that mindfulness. One should appreciate freedom just as much as we realise it is fragile. Terrorism and fighting for freedom could just be opposing sides of the same coin.

There is no such thing as a just war or the mother of all wars to end all wars as it has been sold to us. One form of aggression is the beginning of many never-ending clashes. Collateral damage cannot be justified. There can be no excuse to destroy generations of human discoveries and turn back the clock to the Stone Age. 

All our hands are tainted with guilt. Nevertheless, each day is another new day to make that change. We can all sing to the tune of the official 2014 World Cup song, ‘Ola Ola,’ which means ‘We are One.’ This is like how we all get together for a whole month to immerse ourselves in the world’s favourite sport. We could also reminisce about when the world got together to feed starving kids in Africa via ‘Band-Aid’ and ‘We Are the World’. Borderless is paving the way. Happy Anniversary!

Ihlwha Choi

I sincerely congratulate Borderless Journal on its 5th anniversary. I am always delighted and grateful for the precious opportunity to publish my poetry in English through this journal. I would like to extend my special thanks for this.

Through this journal, I can read a variety of literary works—including poetry, essays, and prose—from writers around the world. As someone for whom English is a foreign language, it has also been a valuable resource for improving my English skills. I especially enjoy the frequent features on Rabindranath Tagore’s poetry, which I read with great joy. Tagore is one of my favourite poets.

I have had the privilege of visiting Santiniketan three times to trace his legacy and honor his contributions to literature and education. However, one aspect I find a little disappointing is that, despite having published over 30 poems, I have yet to receive any feedback from readers or fellow writers. It would be wonderful to have such an opportunity for engagement.

Additionally, last October, a Korean woman received the Nobel Prize in Literature—the first time an author from South Korea has been awarded this honor by the Swedish Academy. She is not only an outstanding novelist but also a poet. I searched for articles about her in Borderless Journal but was unable to find any. Of course, I understand that this is not strictly a literary newspaper, but I would have been delighted to see a feature on her.

I also feel honoured that one of my poems was included in the anthology Monalisa No Longer Smiles: An Anthology of Writings from across the World. I hope such anthologies will continue to be published. In fact, I wonder if it would be possible to compile and publish collections featuring several poems from contributing poets. If these were made available on Amazon, it would be a fulfilling experience for poets to reach a broader audience.

Moving forward, I hope Borderless Journal will continue to reach readers worldwide, beyond Asia, and contribute to fostering love and peace. Thank you.

Prithvijeet Sinha

The journey of authorship, self-expression and cultural exchange that I personally associate with Borderless Journal’s always diverse archives has remained a touchstone ever since this doorway opened itself to the world in 2020. Going against the ramshackle moods of the 2020s as an era defined by scepticism and distances, The journal has upheld a principled literary worldview close to the its pages and made sure that voices of every hue gets representation. It’s also an enterprise that consistently delivers in terms of goodwill and innocence, two rare traits which are in plenteous supply in the poems, travelogues, essays and musings presented here.

The journey with Borderless has united this writer with many fascinating, strikingly original auteurs, buoyed by a love for words and expression. It is only destined for greatness ahead. Happy Birthday Borderless! Here’s to 50 more epochs.

From Our Team

Bhaskar Parichha

As Borderless Journal celebrates its fifth anniversary, it is inspiring to see its evolution into a distinguished platform for discourse and exploration. Over the years, it has carved a unique niche in contemporary journalism, consistently delivering enlightening and engaging content. The journal features a variety of sections, including in-depth articles, insightful essays, and thought-provoking interviews, reflecting a commitment to quality and fostering dialogue on pressing global issues.
The diverse contributions enrich readers’ understanding of complex topics, with a particular focus on climate change, which is especially relevant today. By prioritising this critical issue, Borderless informs and encourages engagement with urgent realities.
Having been involved since its inception, I am continually impressed by the journal’s passion and adaptability in a changing media landscape. As we celebrate this milestone, I wish Borderless continued success as a beacon of knowledge and thoughtful discourse, inspiring readers and contributors alike.

Devraj Singh Kalsi

Borderless Journal has a sharp focus on good writing in multiple genres and offers readable prose. The platform is inclusive and does not carry any slant, offering space to divergent opinions and celebrating free expression. By choosing not to restrict to any kind of ism, the literary platform has built a strong foundation in just five years since inception. New, emerging voices – driven by the passion to write fearlessly – find it the ideal home. In a world where writing often gets commercialised and compromised, Borderless Journal is gaining strength, credibility, and wide readership. It is making a global impact by giving shape to the dreams of legendary poets who believed the world is one.  

Rakhi Dalal

My heartiest congratulations to Borderless and the entire team on the fifth Anniversary of its inception. The journal which began with the idea of letting writing and ideas transcend borders, has notably been acting as a bridge to make this world a more interconnected place. It offers a space to share human experiences across cultures, to create a sense of connection and hence compassion, which people of this world, now more distraught than ever, are sorely in need of. I am delighted to have been a part of this journey. My best wishes. May it continue to sail through time, navigating languages, literature and rising above barriers!

 Keith Lyons

Is it really five years since Borderless Journal started? It seems hard to believe. 

My index finger scrolls through Messenger chats with the editor — till they end in 2022. On the website, I find 123 results under my name. Still no luck. Eventually, in my ‘Sent’ box I find my first submission, emailed with high hopes (and low expectations) in March 2020. ‘Countdown to Lockdown’ was about my early 2020 journey from India through Thailand, Malaysia, Indonesia, and Australia to New Zealand as COVID-19 spread.

Just like that long, insightful trip, my involvement with Borderless Journal has been a journey. Three unique characteristics stand out for me. 

The first is its openness and inclusiveness. It features writers from all over the globe, with various contributions across a wide range of topics, treatments and formats. 

The second feature of the journal is its phenomenal growth, both in readers and writers, and in its reach. Borderless really does ‘walk the talk’ on breaking down barriers. It is no longer just a humble literary journal — it is so much bigger than that. 

The third unique aspect of Borderless is the devotion endowed in nurturing the journal and its contributors. I love the way each and every issue is conceived, curated, and crafted together, making tangible the aspiration ‘of uniting diverse voices and cultures, and finding commonality in the process.’

So where can we go from here? One constant in this world is change. I’d like to think that having survived a global pandemic, economic recession, and troubling times, that the core values of Borderless Journal will continue to see it grow and evolve. For never has there been a greater need to hear the voices of others to discover that we are all deeply connected.

Rhys Hughes

I have two different sets of feelings about Borderless Journal. I think the journal does an excellent job of showcasing work from many different countries and cultures. I want to say it’s an oasis of pleasing words and images in a troubled sea of chaos, but that would be mixing my metaphors improperly. Not a troubled sea of chaos but a desert of seemingly shifting values. And here is the oasis, Borderless Journal, where one can find secure ideals of liberty, tolerance, peace and internationalism. I appreciate this very much. As for my other set of feelings, I am always happy to be published in the journal, and in fact I probably would have given up writing poetry two years ago if it wasn’t for the encouragement provided to me by regular publication in the journal. I have written many poems especially for Borderless. They wouldn’t exist if Borderless didn’t exist. Therefore I am grateful on a personal level, as a writer as well as a reader.

Where can Borderless Journal go from here? This is a much harder question to answer. I feel that traditional reading culture is fading away year after year. Poets write poetry but few people buy poetry books. They can read poems at Borderless for free and that is a great advantage. I would like to see more short stories, maybe including elements of fantasy and speculative fiction. But I have no strategic vision for the future of the journal. However, one project I would like to try one day is some sort of collaborative work, maybe a big poem with lots of contributors following specific rules. It’s an idea anyway!

Meenakshi Malhotra

Borderless started with a vision of transcending the shadow lines and has over time, evolved into a platform where good writing from many parts of the world finds  a space , where as “imagination bodies forth/ The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen/Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing/A local habitation and a name.”

It has been a privilege to be a part of Borderless’s journey over the last few years. It was a journey based on an idea and a vision. That dream of creating solidarity, of transcending and soaring over borders and boundaries, is evident in almost every page and article in the journal.

Mitali Chakravarty

Looking at all these responses, thinking on what everyone has said, I am left feeling overwhelmed.

Borderless started as a whimsical figment of the imagination… an attempt to bring together humanity with the commonality of felt emotions, to redefine literary norms which had assumed a darker hue in the post Bloomsbury, post existentialist world. The journal tried to invoke humour to brings smiles, joys to create a sense of camaraderie propelling people out of depression towards a more inclusive world, where laughter brings resilience and courage. It hoped to weave an awareness that all humans have the same needs, dreams and feelings despite the multiple borders drawn by history, geographies, academia and many other systems imagined by humans strewn over time.  

Going forward, I would like to take up what Harari suggests in Homo Deus — that ideas need to generate a change in the actions of humankind to make an impact. Borderless should hope to be one of the crucibles containing ideas to impact the move towards a more wholesome world, perhaps by redefining some of the current accepted norms. Some might find such an idea absurd,  but without the guts to act on impractical dreams, visions and ideas, we might have gone extinct in a post-dino Earth.

I thank the fabulous team, the wonderful writers and readers whose participation in the journal, or in engaging with it, enhances the hope of ringing in a new world for the future of our progeny.

Categories
Review

Travels in a Paradoxical Island

Book Review by Bhaskar Parichha

 Title: Return to Sri Lanka: Travels in a Paradoxical Island 

Author: Razeen Sally

Publisher: Simon & Schuster India

Sri Lanka’s culture is characterised by several paradoxical aspects that reflect its rich history, diverse population, and the complexities of contemporary society. Here are some notable contradictions: Home to various ethnic groups, including Sinhalese, Tamils, and Muslims, each has its distinct languages and traditions. However, there is a prevailing sentiment among some that prioritises Sinhalese culture over others, leading to tensions and conflicts regarding national identity and rights.

While Sri Lanka has a history of female activism and women hold significant positions in politics (e.g., former President Chandrika Kumaratunga), gender inequality persists in many sectors. Women often face societal pressures that limit their roles despite their contributions to the economy and community. The tiny country has made strides in economic development and infrastructure, yet significant poverty remains, particularly in war-affected regions like the North and East. This disparity highlights the uneven benefits of economic progress across different communities

The island is also known for its religious diversity, with Buddhism, Hinduism, Christianity, and Islam practiced by its citizens. However, this coexistence is often marred by sectarian violence and discrimination, particularly against minority groups during political upheavals.

As Sri Lanka embraces globalization and modern influences, there is a tension between adopting new lifestyles and preserving traditional customs. This cultural clash can lead to generational divides within families and communities.

Razeen Sally’s book, Return to Sri Lanka: Travels in a Paradoxical Island, explores these complexities and contradictions. The memoir combines personal narrative with historical and political analysis, offering readers an immersive journey through various regions of Sri Lanka—from the bustling capital of Colombo to the tranquil beaches and verdant hill country. Sally reflects on his childhood experiences while addressing the island’s tumultuous history, including its colonial past and the long-lasting effects of civil war.

Razeen Sally, the son of a Sri Lankan Muslim father and a Welsh mother, was raised in Colombo and educated in the UK. After teaching at the London School of Economics, he now teaches at the Lee Kuan Yew School of Public Policy in Singapore. In his early forties, he felt a strong urge to return to Sri Lanka for the first time since childhood and has spent the past ten years exploring the island.

Sally viewed Sri Lanka as a paradise during his childhood, but conflict soon disrupted their lives, fracturing his family’s connection to the island. Return to Sri Lanka tells the story of his journey towards reconciliation in the twenty-first century, as Sally, now an academic and political adviser, revisits his birthplace. This travel memoir addresses significant political issues and is rich in beauty and profound reflections, written by someone who feels like both a local and a visitor.

The words, “Paradoxical Island”, in the title encapsulates the duality of Sri Lanka, where hospitality coexists with high rates of violence and societal divisions. Despite interactions among ethnic groups like Tamils and Sinhalese, underlying tensions often surface, revealing deep-seated issues regarding rights and representation.

Sally provides insight into how historical events, such as the policies of successive governments and the impact of colonialism, have shaped contemporary Sri Lankan society. He discusses significant political figures and movements while critiquing policies that have led to economic challenges, including a brain drain among educated youth.

The book highlights Sri Lanka’s diverse cultural landscape, examining how various religions and ethnicities contribute to both its charm and its conflicts. Sally emphasises the importance of understanding these dynamics to appreciate the island’s true essence.

Return to Sri Lanka is not just a travelogue but a profound exploration of a nation grappling with its identity. Sally’s reflections offer hope for reconciliation and progress, urging readers to engage with Sri Lanka’s complexities while appreciating its inherent beauty. These paradoxes illustrate the complexities of Sri Lankan culture, where historical legacies continue to shape contemporary realities, creating a vibrant yet challenging social landscape.

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.

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

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

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Categories
Poetry

Poetry by Stephen Philip Druce

From Public Domian
THE GOLDEN FLOWER


Let the blue mountain slide,

to the pink snow abyss,

let the green city hide

from the burgundy mist,

let the copper creature wither

in an oil painting splatter,

give the new crimson river

for the silver sky to scatter,

let the violet tree tumble

in a turquoise dissolve,

let the yellow hill crumble

in a ruby moon fold,

let the purple sun sear,

let the orange lake drain,

take the red rainbow spear,

lance the cherry forest flame,

chase the claret rain away,

sink the lilac in the sea,

let the amber cloud decay

but let the golden flower be.


THE FIX

Oh what a drag,
to be a perfect
duplicate of two,

burdened with all
the characteristics
of our makers, we are
struck down with their
every trait for our
precise imitation,

once the fresh
dewy offspring shoots
in the new wind, we
rose from the good earth
as one-off hopefuls,

the first day of spring -

"damn!, I'm turning
into my mother!"
shrieked one,

"I'm turning into
my father!"
shrieked another,

"We didn't bloom
unique, we're all copies!"
chanted the endless sea
of petals, washed away
by their own tears,

true, we are our makers,

what we do,
and the way
we do it,

every detail,
passed down,
traced back,
and nobody ever
broke the mold,
never a break,

we're all sentenced
to the same fate and
there is no escape,

that's the fix,

so think twice before
you roll the dice.

Stephen Philip Druce is based in Shrewsbury UK. He is published in the USA, India, the UK and Canada. He’s written for theatre plays in London and BBC 4 Extra. 

Contact: Instagram – @StephenPhilipDruce

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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

Aunties of Vasant Kunj

Title: Aunties of Vasant Kunj

Author: Anuradha Marwah

Publisher: Rupa Publications, India

Shailaja woke up reluctantly with the phone alarm at six in the morning and switched on the pump. The first day of the odd semester! She hadn’t got much sleep, but she was still looking forward to meeting the students. She had worked quite hard in the vacation: reading Gone with the Wind, word by word, and photocopying and collating secondary material. Preparing for the new course on popular fiction had given her an insight into romance; teaching it would be therapeutic, she told herself firmly.

The morning passed too quickly with the ever-voluble Rajni ki Ma[1]. She laid out Shailaja’s green chiffon sari on the bed. A gift from Ranjan in a previous life! Or had it been just last year?

‘Didi, wear this today,’ she commanded.

‘I have to go to college. This sari is thin and transparent. It is for the evening.’

Rajni ki Ma started off another tirade about single women dressing like widows and driving away men from their doorsteps.

‘One should not fight all the time. It can’t be his fault totally. Can one clap with one hand? After all, he came and gave the car, didn’t he? Who gives away something so expensive! You could have talked to him, offered him something to eat. There was enough food and I could have made more. As it is, you people eat so little…’ She went on. Shailaja thought she had a point but she still hung the sari back in the wardrobe and took out a yellow salwar and a grey kurta instead.

Rajni ki Ma made a face. ‘Uh, not even matching. Other madams have everything matching, even sandals. Buy some new clothes, no!’

Shailaja emerged from her new home. She felt young—about five years old. The poha[2] Rajni ki Ma had prepared for her—the Maharashtrian way, with peanuts, curry leaves and a dash of sugar—had been piquant with green chilies. She really enjoyed breakfast in spite of the heartache. Her class began at ten-thirty. It was a good forty-minute drive from Vasant Kunj to college. Shailaja shot out of the parking; it was ten already.

But then she had to brake rather precipitately. A huge water tanker was squatting right outside the parking in the middle of the narrow road to the colony gate. What was she to do? As usual, there were cars parked on both sides of the lane all the way till the gate. The parking areas inside the colony were woefully inadequate to contain the Indian automobile revolution that had resulted in two-three cars per flat. With the tanker standing where it was, it was a complete roadblock. In fact, the sides of the tanker were brushing the parked cars on both sides. Shailaja honked. A woman resplendent in a parrot-green dressing gown appeared from the thicket at the side of the road. ‘Two minutes, Madam,’ she said.

Shailaja noted that the huge pipe that emerged from the underbelly of the tanker and vanished into the hedgerow was vibrating. It was dispensing water into one of the monstrous black storage water tanks behind the hedgerow. The tanker was, no doubt, from the state water department and had been sent to pacify the irate residents. Water was supplied for only half an hour that morning.

Another woman in a frilly pink nightgown arrived on the scene and said to parrot-green, ‘I called the tanker. How is it that you are taking water before me?’

It was Mrs Gandhi underneath the pink frills. But she did not even look at Shailaja. She was busy holding her own with parrot-green.

‘If you keep sitting inside having tea, the whole world is not going to wait for you,’ parrot-green attacked.

‘I had called the tanker,’ repeated Mrs Gandhi.

‘So what, I had called him yesterday and the day before, and you took water before me both days.’

Shailaja stuck her head out of the window. ‘Nilima-ji, it’s me.’

‘There is not a drop in my home, and Mr Gandhi has to leave for work,’ she said turning to Shailaja at last.

Mr Gandhi? Husband… Wow! ‘So do I, Nilima-ji. I have work too. My class begins in twenty minutes,’ said Shailaja poking her head out further. ‘Please move the tanker and let me pass.’

Both the women looked askance. ‘Not a drop of water,’ repeated parrot-green.

‘This is emergency, Shailaja. One day the children can wait for five minutes,’ said the betraying Mrs Gandhi.

‘You know I teach in a college. And can’t the water wait five minutes?’  Shailaja persisted.

‘No, it can’t. Why should we ask the tanker to move? He got here first,’ replied parrot-green querulously.

‘I will lose my job,’ Shailaja pleaded.

‘Teachers in Delhi University are always late,’ said the treacherous Mrs Gandhi as her partner-in-crime nodded her agreement. ‘Nobody ever loses job. You only said!’

‘That’s not true. Like in every other job, there are some who are conscientious and others who aren’t,’ replied Shailaja, cursing herself for bitching about her colleagues to all and sundry.

‘It is a good job for women,’ conceded parrot-green. ‘You’re a woman. You must understand the kind of problems one can have without water,’ she continued in a sisterly way.

‘I’m not telling you to not take water; I’m only requesting you to let me pass. Where is the driver?’ said Shailaja, feeling a little desperate now.

‘How do I know? He must be around,’ replied parrot-green.

‘Don’t get so impatient, Shailaja. Try and see it from Mrs Malhotra’s point of view,’ said Mrs Gandhi brokering Buddhist peace. She had been nattering about her ‘new way of worship’ all through summer.

By then, there were three cars honking behind Shailaja. Somebody yelled, ‘Which so and so is blocking the road today?’

Mrs Gandhi and parrot-green looked at each other and, in unspoken agreement, disappeared behind the hedgerow like exotic birds startled by rude tourists in a bird sanctuary.

‘Nilima-ji, I will get very late,’ whined Shailaja but she was talking to thin air.

A man strode out of the car, ‘Inconveniencing everybody!’ he hollered. ‘Blocking traffic at ten in the morning! Driver!’ he called.

Nothing happened.

‘Whose tanker is this?’ The man demanded.

‘There were a couple of ladies here a minute ago,’ said Shailaja, trying to help.

The man gave her a scornful look. ‘Mrs Gandhi!’ he growled. ‘She seems to have a swimming pool in her flat. Water came for an hour in the morning; still this truck from Jal Board has to be called!’

‘I think the water came for just half an hour this side. There was also this other woman, Mrs Malhotra… In fact, she was taking water,’ the ever fair and loyal Shailaja tried to explain.

The man paid no attention to her. He walked to the tanker and turned off the water supply; the fat tube stopped vibrating. Shailaja wondered about him, obviously a man of consequence. His tummy protruded so confidently, like that of her college principal. A thin boy emerged from the thicket. He looked about fifteen.

‘Move the tanker, you…. Next time I’ll get you arrested,’ the man commanded.

The boy jumped into the driver’s seat and the tanker began to roll back.

Law of inertia: roadblocks in Vasant Kunj don’t move without the use of rude force.

I should have got out of the home earlier, rued Shailaja. She would be very late.

Law of inertia: Rajni ki Ma won’t stop unless there is an equal force against her.

She was trapped between the home and the world, powerless, helpless! Panic had her stomach in knots, the road seemed to rise to block her way, the trees on either side gesticulated menacingly. The big tanker was challenging her to pass from the narrow alley that it had created by rolling back just a couple of feet. The car behind her was honking. She breathed deeply, released the clutch and wove her way around the monster. The car nipping at her heels seemed to snort derisively at her lack of expertise.

She had learnt driving just a couple of years ago; Ranjan’s driver had taught her. They had bought a second-hand car for her commute to college. She hadn’t used her skill much because the driver was usually free to drop her to college in Ranjan’s brand new sedan. But at least she could drive and had a car, Shailaja told herself, in an unconscious echo of Mrs Gandhi’s Buddhism.

[1] Rajni’s mother

[2] A dish with flattened rice

[3] biscuit

About the Book

Three women try Buddhist chanting, activism, and fermented drinks of various kinds to make sense of their fast-changing worlds.

Shailaja, abandoned but lovelorn, wistfully teaching romance in a Delhi University college; Mrs Gandhi, plump and garrulous, dedicated to providing endless cups of tea and plates of biskut[3] to all and sundry; and firebrand Dini, ensconced in her idyllic female world, simply cannot see eye to eye. 

But suddenly, their lives take unexpected turns. A lecherous boss, a cheating husband and a completely unsuitable but irresistible lover make them seek out each other. Will Vasant Kunj, with its tight shared spaces, encroached pathways and perennial water and electricity crises provide intersections for unlikely friendships? Or will they continue to collide at Aunty Point, where they’ve all been cast ashore? 

Written mainly in the form of witty dialogue, the novel is like a play about warring world views. The three women act out Buddhism, feminist activism, and love and longing but in doing so they improvise their acts and their roles merge into a shared femaleness. Indian society is sometimes described in terms of conflict between the pre-modern and the post-modern. In this novel such confusion is located within individuals and the conflict is always psychosocial. So while it details the bizarre dailiness of middle class Vasant Kunj — the illegal water pumps and power breakdowns — the novel also touches lightly on universal dilemmas about identity and conflicting social roles that women face all over the world. It is an accessibly written book intended to make the reader chuckle and think.

About the Author

Anuradha Marwah is the author of four novels The Higher Education of Geetika Mehendiratta, Idol Love, Dirty Picture, and Aunties of Vasant Kunj and five plays. She has co-authored the textbooks for Creative Writing prescribed by Delhi University for undergraduate students and by the NCERT for class nine.  She is recipient of the Charles Wallace Writer’s Residency (2001) to three universities in the UK and Fulbright-Nehru Academic and Professional Excellence (FNAPE) fellowship to the University of Minnesota-Twin Cities (2017). She is Professor of English at Zakir Husain Delhi College, Delhi University and lives in Vasant Kunj with her partner.

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Categories
Conversation

Rings on Her Fingers and Bells on Her Toes…

Ratnottama Sengupta in conversation with Sohini Roychowdhury, who uses dancing to build bridges across cultures

“Meet my daughter Sohini,” Uma Di was introducing the dancer who then lived in Madrid. And my first response was, “Why isn’t she in the movies?!”

Sohini Roy Chowdhury. Courtesy: Sohini Roy Chowdhury

Tall, fair, lissome, agile, Sohini Roychowdhury is the stuff beauty queens and show stoppers are made of. That wasn’t surprising: after all, Uma Roychowdhury herself is the picture of perfection in aesthetics.

It didn’t take me long to realise that, much like the well regarded sculptor’s bronzes, her daughter too was made of enduring stuff. One day she was teaching Bharatanatyam to French, Spanish, and Italian enthusiasts. The next day she was lecturing on mythology in New York. One day she was dancing to ‘Jai Ho![1]’ for the director of the Oscar winning Hollywood movie[2]. Another day she was delineating Durga in an Anthropology Museum…

None of these saw her run out of breath. Nor does she, ever, run out of time. When she’s not holding her fingers in a dance mudra, she is holding a metaphoric pen. This month she unveiled her second book, Dance of Goddess Kali. Yes, she has rings on her fingers and bells on her toes — and wherever she goes, there’s dance on the cards!

Here is what she had to say when I spoke to her:

The Dance of Kali follows Dancing with the Gods. How are the two books different?

Dancing With the Gods and The Dance of Kali are two distinct works, each focusing on different aspects of my artistic and spiritual journey. 

Conceived by Monideepa Mukherjee and Sutapa Sengupta, featuring photos from Sohinimoksha

Dancing With the Gods is a pictorial, coffee-table book stemming from my journey as a classical Indian dancer with a multinational dance troupe. Its vivid visuals showcase my onstage performances and behind-the-scenes moments. These are highlights of my career as a dancer, both solo and with Sohinimoksha World Dance and Communications[3]. 

This visually captivating book focuses on imagery and aesthetics. It offers glimpses into my artistic expression through dance, celebrates my journey around the world, and highlights my life-mantra of connecting civilisations through my craft. This tracing of Sohinimoksha’s journey is for a broader audience: Indian dance enthusiasts, art lovers, and individuals interested in my achievements. The aim is to inspire through visually compelling storytelling.

In contrast, The Dance of Kali is a treatise on the ethos of Goddess Kali and Shaktism. It delves into the deeper spiritual and philosophical aspects associated with the goddess, exploring Kali’s symbolism, mythology, and significance within the context of Shaktism, a Hindu tradition of worshiping the divine feminine energy. The tone of this work is contemplative, as it delves into the profound symbolism and the spiritual aspects associated with the Goddess. It incorporates scholarly research, analysis, and interpretations from various perspectives. Hopefully it offers readers a deeper understanding of Kali’s significance in Hindu spirituality.

May I point out here that The Dance of Kali is not a religious book. It is for readers with a specific interest in Hindu mythology, spirituality, or the myths and legends around the resident Goddess of Kolkata. Those seeking a deeper understanding of Kali’s symbolism and philosophical underpinnings within the context of Shaktism, will find this book dispels disrespectful misrepresentations and unfounded Western misconceptions  surrounding the images of Kali as a demonic goddess. 

To sum up: both the books reflect different facets of my artistic and spiritual journey. However, they differ significantly in their subject matter, focus, tone, and intended audience. One celebrates my achievements as a dancer through captivating visuals. The other is an academic tome exploring the profound symbolism and spirituality associated with Goddess Kali.

What prompted you, an international dancer, to pick such a rooted in mythology subject?

I have always had a personal affinity with or inclination towards Goddess Kali. Many artistes draw inspiration from their own beliefs, experiences, and cultural backgrounds when choosing subjects for their work. I am no different. For me the depiction of the Goddess is an opportunity for artistic exploration. Kali, with her complex symbolism and multifaceted persona, offers rich material for creative interpretation through the arts, be it dance, literature or visual arts. 

This book also celebrates India’s rich mythological heritage and the way it connects to other ancient cultures, in Mesopotamia, Egypt, Spain and France. Kali, with her global soul sisters Ishtar or Sara La Kali, holds significant cultural and religious importance, not just in Hinduism, but other cultures as well, particularly within the contexts of worshipping Mother Goddesses. I delve into Kali’s mythology and symbolism to honour this aspect of Indian life, and its universal resonance. 

Yes, Goddess Kali is rooted in Indian mythology. But the themes she embodies — feminine power, transformation, and liberation —transcend cultural boundaries. I hope this book will serve to explore universal themes of empowerment and spirituality. It also aims to provide a deeper understanding of Hindu mythology, and the symbolism associated with the Dark Goddess. Effectively I seek to promote intercultural dialogue and foster greater appreciation for diverse religious traditions. Most significantly, I hope to dispel the uneducated interpretations of Kali as a horrific, savage, demonic goddess. How often she is typecast as a symbol of evil — in popular Western films, books and even as Halloween costumes for disrespectful celebrities like Heidi Klum! 

I have witnessed your performance as Durga in an anthropology museum in Madrid. I have noted your commitment to meaningful, even profound themes in your endeavours. What has been your grooming in dance?

I started dancing at a young age under  renowned Bharatanatyam Guru, Thankamany Kutty. Later I learnt from Kalamandalam Venkitt in Kolkata. I received rigorous training in Bharatanatyam, the dance  that originated in the temples of Tamil Nadu. My dedication to classical art led me to delve deep into its nuances. I mastered intricate footwork, expressions, and storytelling techniques. Over the years, I refined my technique and expression through consistent practice and performance and came to embody the essence of Bharatanatyam.

Your father was a renowned sitarist living in Germany. Your mother is a reputed sculptor of Kolkata. Why did you, an only child, not take to any of these streams of creative expression?

Indeed I was born into a family of accomplished artists. My father, Pandit Subroto Roychowdhury was a renowned sitarist, and my mother, Uma Roychowdhury, is a reputed sculptor. But I chose a different path for myself. 

As an only child, I was exposed to various forms of creative expression. But my passion for dance was ignited after watching a riveting performance by Yamini Krishnamurthy when I was about four years old. While I deeply respect my family’s artistic legacy, I followed my own calling and embarked on a journey to carve my niche in the world of dance.

What are the values you have imbibed from them individually?

My father’s sitar schools in Germany have produced hundreds of students — including distinguished sitar players. From him I imbibed a profound appreciation for music and rhythm. I learned discipline, dedication, and the importance of perseverance in mastering an art form. From my sculptor mother I inherited a keen love for aesthetics and eye for details. I learned the importance of expressing emotions and stories through visual and performing arts. 

Together these values have steered me towards excellence and innovation in my journey as a dancer and communicator.

Mixed genre performance by Sohini Roychowdhury. Courtesy: Sohini Roy Chowdhury

You have lived in Moscow and Madrid. You are guest professor in far-flung Universities, in America and Columbia. You have danced Bharatanatyam and you have danced to Jai ho! at the premiere of Slumdog Millionaire. What have you gained through your international exposure?

My international exposure has enriched me both personally and professionally. Living in cultural environments as diverse as Moscow and Madrid have broadened my perspectives and deepened my understanding of global arts and communication. 

More than 2000 students have ‘graduated’ through my two dance schools in Spain — Casa Asia and Sohinimoksha Artes de la India. In Moscow, more than 80 Russian students performed with me on stage at the Embassy of India and Nehru Centre at the end of their course. As a guest professor in universities across Europe, USA and Latin America, teaching dance, Natyashastra [theory of dance] and Indology, I have not only shared my expertise — I have learnt from students, artistes and scholars from different backgrounds. 

Through my performances of Bharatanatyam, and collaborations with international artists, have bridged cultural divides. My dancing to Jai Ho! at the European premiere of Slumdog Millionaire showcased the universal appeal of Indian dance and music. It  highlighted its ability to connect with people across borders. Today I can confidently claim to have promoted cross-cultural exchange globally.

Coming from an aristocratic, old Calcutta background, what merit do you see in Bollywood dancing?

Despite coming from an aristocratic background rooted in old Calcutta, I recognise the merit in Bollywood dancing which has become a global phenomenon. Not surprising. For, characterised by vibrant energy, expressive movements, and fusion of multiple dance styles — from Salsa to Tango, Twist to ChaChaCha – Bollywood dancing holds mass appeal. It serves as a platform for artists to showcase their talents to diverse audiences and has contributed to the popularization of Indian culture worldwide. It is rooted in traditional Indian dance forms, yet embraces modern influences. And it reflects the evolving tastes of contemporary audiences. 

Since the 1960s, Bollywood has drawn inspiration from various musical traditions across the world. This imparted its films a rich tapestry of global influences. This fusion of world music and dance enriched the aesthetic of Bollywood — and in turn contributed to its cultural significance and global appeal.

In the 1960s, Indian cinema underwent a transformation with the emergence of filmmakers like Guru Dutt and Raj Kapoor, who infused their films with elements of Western music and dance. The most iconic example of this is seen in the song Mera joota hai Japani [my shoes are Japanese] from Shree 420 (1955): here Raj Kapoor’s character sings about wearing Japanese shoes, English pantaloons, and Russian caps — all of which symbolised the growing influence of the West in post-colonial India. And yet, as the song stresses, at core these films are Hindustani — Indian.

Throughout the ’60s, ’70s and ’80s, the industry witnessed the rise of dance and music directors who played a pivotal role in incorporating world music and dance forms into Hindi cinema. Composers like OP Nayyar, Shankar Jaikishan, SD Burman, C Ramachandran, Kalyanji Anandji, RD Burman, Laxmikant-Pyarelal, and Bappi Lahiri experimented with disparate musical styles. These ranged from rock-n-roll, rumba, flamenco to disco, reggae and jazz. This infused their compositions with international flavours. 

Similarly, choreographers Sohanlal,  PL Raj, Herman Benjamin, Suresh Bhatt, Saroj Khan, Chinni and Rekha Prakash, Shiamak Davar, Farah Khan, Remo D’Souza, Terence Lewis, Vaibhavi Merchant, and Prabhu Deva have blended Indian classical dance with Western styles. This has created the unique dance style that is now identified as Bollywood dancing. It has homogenised movements from hip-hop to salsa and contemporary dance.

Soon stars like Shammi Kapoor, Helen, Asha Parekh, Hema Malini, Rishi Kapoor, Mithun Chakraborty, Jeetendra, Govinda, Hrithik Roshan, Madhuri Dixit, and Sridevi became synonymous with Bollywood’s larger-than-life dance numbers. For, it showcased their versatility and flair for different dance steps. Embracing the twist and turn era of the ’60s to the disco craze of ’70s and the hip-hop-inspired moves of the 2000s, Bollywood stars captivated audiences with their energy and charisma.

Along with Western influences, Bollywood also drew from traditional Indian dances. Its choreography incorporated elements of Bharatanatyam, Kathak, and Odissi. Dance sequences like Dola Re Dola from Devdas (2002) and Pinga from Bajirao Mastani (2015) exemplify the fusion of classical and contemporary dances, blending intricate footwork with dynamic movements and expressions.

In recent years, Bollywood has continued to evolve, reflecting the changing tastes and preferences of global audiences. Directors, like Sanjay Leela Bhansali and Farah Khan, have pushed the boundaries of traditional filmmaking, creating visually stunning spectacles that showcase the diversity of world music and dance. Stars like Priyanka Chopra, Deepika Padukone, and Ranveer Singh have embraced this eclectic mix of styles, bringing their own unique interpretations to the screen.

Spanish, Bulgarian and other European dancers from my own troupe, Sohinimoksha World Dance, have performed specially choreographed fusion dance items set to popular Bollywood tracks. Kristina Veselinova danced to Mere Dholna from Bhool Bhulaiya; Violeta Perez and Lola Martin to Senorita! from Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara and Maria Sanz on Padmavat’s Ghoomer on stages across India and the world. So I readily acknowledge the significance of Bollywood dance in preserving India’s cultural heritage while adapting to changing times.

Would you say our films are taking our dance traditions to votaries abroad? Just as Indian musicians of the 1960s had taken our ragas to the West?

In the 1960s, Ravi Shankar, Ali Akbar Khan and other maestros played a crucial role in initiating the West in the rich notes of Indian classical music — and that had enriched the global cultural landscape. My own father, Pandit Subroto Roychowdhury, spent more than 40 years in Germany and other European countries, spreading and popularising Indian classical music through concerts and classes. Today Indian films, particularly Bollywood, are carrying forward this legacy. They are showcasing the wealth that is Indian dance — often fused with world dance influences. Just as our musicians shared the wealth of ragas with the West, Bollywood films are spreading the infectious exuberance of Indian dance to enthusiasts around the globe. This is fostering cultural exchange on an international scale. Small wonder that Bollywood is now acknowledged as India’s most potent soft power. 

What, in your opinion, is needed to make GenNext learn from our past traditions?

If we want GenNext to learn from our past traditions, we must provide them with comprehensive exposure to our rich cultural heritage. For this, we must integrate our arts and cultural practices into educational curricula. We must foster appreciation through interactive experiences — workshops, performances, cultural events. Additionally we must leverage modern technologies and platforms to disseminate information. Let’s make traditional arts more accessible and engaging for the young. Let’s cultivate mentorship programs and intergenerational exchanges. For, we must bridge the gap between past traditions and contemporary lifestyles, to ensure their relevance and continuity for the generations to come.

Sohini I have seen you at close quarters, as a mother, wife, daughter, and daughter-in-law even as you criss-cross the world for your dance. How do you still find time to write, which is such a demanding, reflective expression?

I am fortunate to be able to balance my roles as a mother, wife, daughter, daughter-in-law, and a performing artiste. My experience as much as my dedication to my craft honed my time-management skills. Despite crisscrossing the world for performances, lecture tours, and other professional commitments, I carve out time to write, for I recognise its significance as a reflective form of expression. 

To effectively manage my time, I set priorities, create schedules, and maximize productivity during the available windows of time. I designate specific periods for writing, be it early mornings, late evenings, or during travel downtime. I try to integrate writing into my daily routine, seizing moments of inspiration and reflection to jot down ideas or draft passages.

My passion for writing is a driving force — it motivates me to make time for it amidst my busy schedule. Writing provides a creative outlet for introspection, and intellectual exploration. It complements my artistic endeavours and enriches my personal and professional growth.

I am grateful for the support I receive from the network of my family, friends, and collaborators. They play a crucial role in facilitating my writing pursuits. My latest book, The Dance of Kali, was co-written with my son Rishi Dasgupta, an Economics MSc from the University of St Andrews, UK. 

However, at the end of the day, that I find time to write amidst my multifaceted life, reflects my passion for engaging in reflective expression. Because? It contributes to my holistic development as an artist and an individual.

[1] A song from the 2008 Bollywood movie, Slumdog Millionaire

[2] Danny Boyle

[3] A dance troop started by Sohini Roychowdhury with presence in Madrid, Berlin and Kolkata

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Ratnottama Sengupta, formerly Arts Editor of The Times of India, teaches mass communication and film appreciation, curates film festivals and art exhibitions, and translates and write books. She has been a member of CBFC, served on the National Film Awards jury and has herself won a National Award. 

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

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Amazon International