Tag: United States

After the Gherkin

A Mrs Tadpole Mystery by Deborah Blenkhorn

Parry Lines was an ordinary fellow, so much so that even his friends couldn’t be bothered to find out his actual name and were content to call him “Parallel,” his nickname since childhood. Regular, indeed nondescript features were surmounted by his trademark bald pate; the most you could say was that occasionally he wore a bright plaid shirt in neon pastels to liven things up a bit.

Ten weeks A.G. (After Gherkin)

Yet his death (by gherkin) caused a butterfly effect that changed the world. Until the incident with the gherkin, the most notable thing that had ever happened to Parry was when his surprisingly dashing teenaged son had consumed an entire teacup full of gravy during Thanksgiving dinner. Honoured guests had watched in horror as Parry Jr. (PJ for short), notable for his twinkling hazel eyes and flowing chestnut hair, gulped down the rich, brown fluid–though they should have expected something of the kind when he poured the gravy from the pitcher on the table into the China cup ready at his place setting for after-dinner tea.

Present at that event, and at the gherkin incident as well, was Mrs. Honoria Tadpole, English professor and amateur sleuth. Her demure, conservative appearance (she always wore a smart, tailored suit–or at least the best the local thrift shop could provide–and had her silver-blonde hair cut in a perky, short bob) and her self-effacing manner and diminutive (if plump) stature belied the sharpest mind north of California. It would fall to her to unravel the complicated mystery that the local paper dubbed “Gherkingate.”

Interviewed by the features’ editor, as the criminal trial of the alleged murderer dragged on, Mrs. Tadpole was asked the inevitable question of how it had all started. The interview took place in Mrs. Tadpole’s well-appointed parlour, a room replete with Victorian bric-a-brac. With characteristic hospitality, she poured out a strong brew of BC Bold to accompany the delicate sandwiches (ham, egg, and cucumber) and homemade oatmeal cookies that were her signature “high tea,” known to local islanders as a four o’clock tradition at the old manse where Mrs. Tadpole rented a small suite.

“Now, Mrs. Catchpole, I understand you were part of the original party that travelled to Moany Bay,” the interviewer began.

“Tadpole,” Mrs. Tadpole corrected. A veteran instructor of nineteen- and twenty-year-olds, she was used to misspellings and mispronunciations. Marpole, Rumpole, Toadpole: she had heard and seen it all, and could make the necessary correction without even flinching anymore. She cast her mind back almost three months to a mid-summer weekend off British Columbia’s Sunshine Coast.

She began with an allusion to classic culture: “Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale, a tale of a fateful trip…”

Sadly, the features’ editor of the Island Gleaner failed to catch the reference to Gilligan’s Island, one of the best sit-coms of the 1960s. Mrs. Tadpole had been a toddler when the series was first aired, but its popularity throughout her childhood made it a touchstone for, really, almost everything in life, according to her observations. She knew that some people accorded such a status to the iconic, original Star Trek, but what did Captain Kirk have that “the Skipper” did not? Not much, thought Mrs. Tadpole.

The premise of Gilligan’s Island was classic: a small number of people, randomly-assorted, stranded on an island together with no real prospect of deliverance. After all, wasn’t that just the paradigm of human existence? You didn’t need to be an English proffessor (though Mrs. Tadpole was one, of course) to figure that out.

That fateful weekend, when the seeds of the gherkin incident was sown, had been rife with undertones of Gilligan’s Isle.

Breathing deeply of the fresh Pacific breeze, the passengers sat out on the deck of the vessel as it hugged the rugged BC coastline. The rushing water behind the Skirmish flumed out into a fan of spray, while the murky depths offshore spat out seals and sealions–even the occasional humpback whale–with random irregularity. Black bears hid among the rocks and evergreens in the uninhabited areas; cabins dotted the beaches in the populated areas of cottage country. On the way up the coast, the party of friends and family had composed their own version of the theme song, with each member of the group assigned to a role from the original cast. Mrs. Tadpole was the Professor, of course. Never mind that the community college where Mrs. Tadpole worked had opted not to accord academic titles to their teachers, or that the original Professor in the TV series was a man. (As Mrs. Tadpole had been known to say to her first-year college students, we live in a post-gender, post-glass-ceiling world. And if we don’t, we should).

Aboard the Bayliner, Skirmish, Parry Lines was the Skipper, and his hapless, gravy-drinking son was typecast as the irrepressible Gilligan, full of mischief and ridiculous ideas. Mrs. Tadpole could only hope that her adorable niece, Mary Anne (same name as her Gilligan’s Island counterpart!), was immune to his sauce-swilling charms.

The Millionaire role was assumed by the reclusive entrepreneur Deadhead, Mickey Garcia (if that were in fact his real name), accompanied by his charming wife, Penelope, a voluptuous brunette. Together they had built an empire founded on tribute bands and biopics. The rumour mill had it that there was trouble in paradise, but no one outside his immediate family had seen Mickey for years, so it was difficult to substantiate the gossip.

The cast was fleshed out (so to speak) with a bona fide movie star, the internet sensation who began as one of the central figures in a YouTube series called Project Man Child (“For the price of a cup of coffee… you can buy this underemployed househusband a cup of coffee!”) and had gone on to a viral barrage of TikToks under the sobriquet of “The Naked Gardener”. Mrs. Tadpole was relieved (as no doubt were the others) to note that all the passengers aboard the Skirmish, including this one, appeared to be fully clothed.

At least, all whom she could see wore conventional travelling attire: Mr Garcia, recovering from surgery and groggy with heavy opiates, was shrouded in a blanket and wearing dark glasses. He slumped a little to the side, and his heavy breathing attested to a well-earned reputation for napping as a pretense in order to ignore his surroundings.

As Mrs Tadpole later told the Gleaner interviewer, the real concern of the trip quickly emerged: not the rapprochement of Mary Anne and Parallel Jr., but the burgeoning, even violent antagonism between Parry Sr. and Penelope Garcia, whom the latter insisted on calling “Cherry” with a suggestive leer while her husband languished in his bunk. “Is he grateful? Or just dead?” quipped Lines. One night, Penelope went so far as to brandish a knife in Lines’ general direction and had to be restrained by Mrs Tadpole and Mary Anne in tandem.

Although Madame Garcia was the only one to meet his taunts with open animosity, no one was spared the self-proclaimed wit of Parallel Lines.

He had the nerve to call Mrs Tadpole’s beloved niece, whose sunny disposition was outshone only by the sweet, fair face that perched above her perfect figure, “Mistress Mary, Quite Contrary” –nothing could have been further from the truth! Of course, Mary Anne merely smiled and shrugged it off, as if no insult could penetrate her cheerful exterior … but others were less armour-clad.

The bully referred mercilessly to the Naked Gardener as “Jamie Oliver, the Naked Chef” (whom he slightly resembled) a slur that obviously got under the man’s skin (“I couldn’t boil an egg to save my life!” he protested angrily. “That’s not my brand at all! He’d better watch his back…”).

Even Mrs. Tadpole (surprisingly resilient after having been bullied through her shy youth as resembling a chubby little toad) came in for her share of abuse, rechristened as “Mrs Toad” after making her one of specialties, toad-in-the-hole, for her shipmates. (Once she discovered that the galley of the Bayliner was stocked with a potato ricer and La Ratte potatoes, there was no holding her back. A ring of caramelized onions surrounded each serving dish, with two nut-brown sausage-ends sticking out of the centre, for all the world like a couple of froggy eyes.) “No one calls me Toad,” she intoned ominously.

Cruelly and unaccountably, Parallel Lines saved his worst tirade for his own son. Recalling that terrible moment of youthful folly, that mind-gripping shame that only time could heal, the father saluted the son like a champion hog-caller summoning his prize sow. “Sooooo-Eeeeee! Want some gravy with that?” Alternatively, he would break into song to the tune of ‘Hey, Jude’:

"Au jus,
Just make it fat,
Take some gravy
And make it wetter..."

It was pitiful to see the boy’s response, especially in front of Mary Anne. His pale face was suffused with a ruddy glow beneath his chestnut fringe, and hot, angry tears rose in his sensitive, hazel eyes.

“I’ll kill him,” PJ muttered under his breath.

And now the tranquil Mary Anne, who couldn’t have cared less about any vitriol directed her way, was at last roused to fury in defense of her maligned and helpless friend. “I’ll do it for you!” she offered. “By G—!”

Two Hours B.G. (Before Gherkin)

Suffice it to say, no one was all that distressed when Parallel Lines failed to return to the Skirmish after an afternoon in the seaside village of Egmont (pronounced with an “egg” and not an “edge”).

Penelope had steered Mickey off in a collapsable wheelchair they had stowed on the boat; “the millionaire and his wife” were off for lunch al fresco, heading for a picnic table in an accessible, though private, spot. Roast beef sandwiches and condiments, along with champagne and a couple of plastic flutes, had been assembled into a decorative yet sturdy straw basket which the amazon-like Penelope slung easily over one arm as she manouevred the wheelchair down the forest path.

The movie star had gone in search of Egmont’s famous cream cheese cinnamon buns, hoping to be recognised at the Forest Cafe by someone who would do a double take and exclaim, “Hey! Wait! Aren’t you that man child?”

Mrs Tadpole and her niece decided to go for a refreshing swim in the brisk waters of the bay, washing off the grime of shipboard life before stopping at the Village Green Room for a bowl of veggie curry soup and some fresh, hot rolls.

As for PJ, he declared himself too upset to leave the Skirmish, and was hoping to curl up with a graphic novel, a diet soda, and a bag of Doritos, to forget all his cares for a few hours while the rest of the party looked around Egmont Village.

But where was Parallel? It was time to cast off. If they didn’t leave soon, they wouldn’t make it to the Coastal Lodge before dark. And–not to mention–P. Lines was the skipper!

“I’m perfectly capable of getting us there,” insisted PJ, fortified by his power nap. “I’ll bet you anything, dad’s holed up at the Drifter Pub, and he’ll crash at the hotel there. I’m sure he’s as tired of us as we are of him. Let’s just go. We’ll all have cooled off by tomorrow morning, and I’ll swing back and get him then, bring him up to the Lodge for the rest of the weekend.”

The plan sounded good, and all agreed to it willingly. Off they set for the rustic cabin someone had dubbed the Coastal Lodge in hopes (quite justified, as it turned out) of charging a tidy sum in AirBnB rates. Never mind that it featured a remote outhouse and a camp kitchen; the setting was beyond beautiful, and the (now) congenial group looked forward to beach and forest walks, blazing bonfires, and midnight swims. Mrs Tadpole insisted on taking charge of the outdoor kitchen: she had brought the ingredients for her famous moussaka and looked forward to the challenge of cooking it in a casserole dish on the barbecue. PJ and Maryanne diced feta, tomatoes, onions and cucumbers for a Greek salad, while the movie star tried in vain to get a cell signal and the millionaires played cribbage by the big bay window in the cabin.

Parallel Lines could cool his heels at the Drifter until morning, thought PJ and crew.

G.T. (Gherkin Time)

“So,” said Mrs. Tadpole to her interviewer, “Can you guess who did it?”

“Uh,” said the Features editor. “Nope.”

“I’ll give you a hint: don’t ask who was the perpetrator. Ask who was the victim!”

“Well, that would be Mr. Lines, would it not?”

“Would it? What if the wheelchair-bound invalid, Mr. Garcia, was really Parallel Lines in disguise?”

“But–”

“He was wrapped in a blanket, wearing dark glasses and a mask, slumped in his chair. And there was a switcheroo.”

“A what?”

“A switch. In the forest.”

“Well, I’ll be jiggered. Why haven’t you said anything?”

“Blackmail.”

“You’re blackmailing the unlikely lovers? Parry Lines and Madame G?”

“No, they’ve been blackmailing me. But it’s time to come out. My trans-formation is at hand!”

“Mrs Tadpole! What a story for the Gleaner–and for the world! May I be the first to congratulate you?”

“You may.”

Deborah Blenkhorn is a poet, essayist, and storyteller living in Canada’s Pacific Northwest. Her work fuses memoir and imagination, and has been featured in over 40 literary magazines and anthologies in Canada, the United States, Britain, the Netherlands, Germany, Australia, Brazil, India, and Indonesia.

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Interview Review

How Jaladhar Sen Travelled to the Himalayas More Than a Hundred Years Ago…

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date September 15, 2025
1 Comment on How Jaladhar Sen Travelled to the Himalayas More Than a Hundred Years Ago…

A review of Jaladhar Sen’s The Travels of a Sadhu in the Himalayas, translated from Bengali by Somdatta Mandal, published by Speaking Tiger Books, and a conversation with the translator.

Jaladhar Sen (1860–1939) travelled to the Himalayas on foot with two sadhus[1] in quest of something intangible. His memoir makes us wonder if it was resilience, for after all he lost his daughter, wife and mother — all within a few months. He moved to Dehradun from Bengal for a change of scene after his tragic losses before journeying into the hills.

Written in Bengali and first published as a serial in the Tagore family journal, Bharati, in 1893, the book was brought out in 1900 as Himalay. It has been brought to Anglophone readers by Somdatta Mandal, an eminent translator who has extensively translated much of Tagore’s essays and journals. She is a critic and scholar, a former professor of Santiniketan, an excellent translator to bring Jaladhar Sen’s diary to light. Mandal has given a lucid and informative introduction to Sen, his book and her translation — very readable and without the use of scholastic language or words which would confuse readers. Her commentary adds value to the text by contextualising the people, the times and the circumstances.

Her translation is evocative of the journey, creating vivid visual impact with the play of words. Sen is a Bengali who has picked up Hindi during his brief stay in Dehradun. That he uses multiple vernaculars to move around with two more Bengali migrants who have turned to a religious life and meets locals and pilgrims from a variety of places is well-expressed with a smattering of expressions from various languages and dialects. Mandal has integrated the meanings of these words into the text, making it easy for readers unfamiliar with these phrases to read and enjoy the narrative without breaking the continuity.

Sen is secular and educated — not ritualistic but pragmatic. You can see his attitudes illustrated in an incident at the start of the book: “We quickened our pace, but when we caught up to the two sanyasis, I felt a mix of amusement and irritation. One of them turned out to be my former servant, whom I had dismissed twenty or twenty-five days earlier for theft. His transformation was remarkable—dressed in the elaborate robes of a sanyasi, with tangled hair and constant chants of ‘Har Har Bom Bom’, he was barely recognisable as the thief he once was. It was sheer bad luck on his part that our paths crossed that day.”

At the end of the journey too, Sen concludes from his various amusing and a few alarming experiences: “Many imposters masquerading as holy sanyasis brought disgrace to the very essence of renunciation. Most of these so-called sanyasis were addicted to ganja[2], begged for sustenance, and carried the weight of their sins from one pilgrimage site to another.”

Yet, there is compassion in his heart as the trio, of which Sen was a part, help a sick young youth and others in need. He makes observations which touch ones heart as he journeys on the difficult hilly terrain, often victimised by merciless thunderstorms, heavy downpours and slippery ice. He writes very simply on devotion of another: “I felt happy observing how deep faith and belief illuminated his face.” And also observes with regret: “We have lost that simple faith, and with it, we have also lost peace of mind.” He uses tongue-in-cheek humour to make observations on beliefs that seem illogical. “In such matters, credit must be given to the authors of the Puranas. For instance, Hanuman had to be portrayed as colossal, so the sun was described as being subservient to him. However, with the advancement of science, the estimated size of the sun grew larger, and instead of diminishing Hanuman’s glory, his stature had to be exaggerated even further. Similarly, Kumbhakarna’s nostrils had to be depicted as enormous, so that with each breath, twenty to twenty-five demon monkeys could enter his stomach and exit again.”

Mandal has translated beautiful descriptions of the Himalayas from his narrative with lucid simplicity and elegance. When Sen chances to see the first snow peaks, the wonder of it, is captured with skill: “We were amazed to see a huge mountain of snow, its four large peaks encircling us. The sun was already quite high in the sky, and its bright rays fell upon those mountain peaks, radiating hues that cannot simply be described in words. Even the best painter in the world could not replicate the scene with his brush.” And: “Yet the scenery that unfolded before my eyes was simply magical. Standing in front of this pristine beauty, man’s power and pride were humbled. He could recognise his own triviality and weakness very clearly and, to a certain extent, grasp the greatness of the creator within his heart.”

And of course, there is the typical Bengali witty, sardonic banter creeping in to the narrative: “On certain days, when I felt inclined to indulge in minor luxuries, I would purchase a few pedas. However, such bravado was rarely worth the effort, as one might have needed the assistance of archaeological experts to determine the sweets’ actual date of origin—no one could tell how many generations of worms had made their home inside them!”

The translation has retained the simplicity of the narrative which Sen tells us was essentially his style. He had no intention of publishing what he wrote. He had started out in company of a sadhu with a staff, a blanket and a stock of Baul Kangal Harinath’s songs. He writes at the end: “I didn’t intend to write a diary. I had a songbook with me, and when that book was being bound, I had added a few blank pages with the idea of writing down new songs if I came across them.” He scribbled his notes in those blank pages.

The journey makes a wonderful read with its humorous descriptions of errant sadhus, frightening storms, descriptions of geographies and travel arrangements more than a hundred years ago, where the pilgrims live in shop houses and eat meagre meals, the perseverance, the wonder, the love and friendship one meets along the way. Though there is greed, theft and embarrassment too! Some of his narrative brings to my mind Nazes Afroz’s translation of Syed Mujtaba Ali’s In a Land Far from Home: A Bengali in Afghanistan.

Mandal tells us: “A prolific writer, Sen authored about forty-two books, including novels, travelogues, works with social messages, children’s literature, and biographies.” In real life, she describes Sen as “a writer, poet, editor, philanthropist, traveller, social worker, educationist and littérateur.” That’s a long list to wear. There’s more from Mandal about what the book offers and why she translated this unique travelogue in this exclusive interview.

How did you chance upon this book and why did you decide to translate it? How long did the whole process take?

I have been writing and researching on Indian Travel Writing for almost over two decades now and so was familiar with the sub-genre of travel writing about the Himalayas. In Bangla, there exists a great number of books on travel to holy places as part of a pilgrimage from the mid-19^th century onwards. But this book was unique because it was written by a secular person who did not go to the Himalayas as part of a pilgrimage but nevertheless got influenced by the other pilgrims with whom he went along. It was in the summer of 1890 when he actually travelled, and later in 1893, his perilous experience was published serially in the Bengali periodical Bharati which was then edited by Rabindranath Tagore’s niece, Sarala Devi Choudhurani.

During that period, with the proliferation of travel narratives being regularly published in several contemporary Bengali periodicals, Jadadhar Sen’s narration became very popular and after 1900 when it was published in book form, it took the Bengali readers of the time by storm. Its popularity led to it being included as part of the syllabus at Calcutta University. Feeling that pan-Indian readers who could not read the original text in Bangla should get to read this interesting text in English, I was inspired to translate this travelogue for a long time and Speaking Tiger Books readily accepted my proposal a couple of years ago.

The places visited by Sen might not seem unique in the present context, but the period during which he undertook the travel and the culture-specificity of it needed special attention. I was busy editing two volumes of travel narratives to Britain then, and after I finished my project, I took up translating this text in full earnest. It took me about three months to complete the translation, and I send the manuscript to the publishers in January this year. After several editorial interventions, it ultimately saw the light of day in July 2025.

Did you need to input much research while doing the translation? How tough was it to translate the text, especially given that it has multiple language and cultural nuances?

I did have to do some biographical research on Jaladhar Sen as his narrative is absolutely silent about why he moved from Bengal to Dehradun and the actual reason for his setting out on this particular journey. Interestingly, I was also researching about Swami Ramananda Bharati, who was the first Bengali traveller to Tibet and Manas Sarovar, and who wrote the famous book Himaranya (The Forest of Snow) whom Sen knew earlier and with whom he actually undertook the journey. With several cross references I could fill in a lot of biographical gaps in the narrative.

Regarding translation, it must be kept in mind that though something is always lost in translation, one must always attempt to strike the right balance between oversimplification and over-explanation. Translation is also a sort of creativity and the challenges it poses are significant. The intricate navigation between the source language and the translated language shows that there are two major meanings of translation in South Asia – bhashantar, altering the language, and anuvad, retelling the story. Without going into major theoretical analyses that crowd translation studies per se, I feel one should have an equal grasp over both translated and source languages to make a translated piece readable.

What are the tools you have used to retain the flavour of the original narrative? Please elaborate.

Readability of this old text Himalay in the present context is of paramount importance and though it is very difficult to replicate the grandiose writing style of late nineteenth-century Bangla, I have attempted to retain as much of the original flavour of the text as possible. Without using glossary or footnotes, the meaning of certain words becomes evident through paraphrasing the text. Thus, in keeping with Jaladhar Sen’s original work, the names of some words have been retained as they are. For example, the words dharamshala and chati—resting places on the pilgrim’s path—are so culture-specific that they are retained in their original forms. Sen also uses other culture-specific words such as panda (the Brahmin middleman who acts as the intermediary for worshipping the deity), the kamandalu (the water jug carried by sanyasis), lota-kambal (the jug and blanket that emphasise one’s identity as a sadhu), the jhola (the typical cloth bag that hangs from the shoulders), and the mahanta, or the head priest of the temple. Again, different terms such as sadhu, sanyasi, and yogi are used at different points to define ascetics and are often employed interchangeably. The term math, denoting seats of authority and doctrinal learning, has also been retained in its original form. As a Bengali gentleman settled in western India— Dehradun—the author often refers to Bengal as his desh, which literally means ‘country’, but in his parlance refers to the region of Bengal, which is as much a part of India as Dehradun. This definition should not create any confusion in the reader’s mind.

You, like the author, never clearly tell us why Sen starts out on such a perilous journey. Why do you think he went to this journey?

From evidential sources we get to know that like any other domestic person Jaladhar Sen began his career as a teacher in a High School in 1883 in Faridpur in Bengal. He got married in 1885 but however, a few years later he endured a great personal tragedy, losing his family members in quick succession. In 1887, his newborn daughter died on the twelfth day after her birth, and his wife passed away another twelve days later. Within three months, his mother also died. Overwhelmed by grief and seeking solace, he moved to Dehradun at the foothills of the Himalayas, where he worked as a teacher.

It is known that Sen did not venture into the Himalayas out of wanderlust. Dejected with domestic life, he apparently went to Kumbh Mela in Haridwar, where he chanced upon Swami Ramananda Bharati, an elderly Bengali sadhu whom he had known previously. He decided to accompany him on a trek all the way to Badrinath on foot. This was the background to his Himalayan travels and how he became a paribrajak sadhu or a traveller saint. The year was 1890.

Even though the memoir spans only a month, the author underwent many changes. Would you regard this book as a bildungsroman of sorts, especially as there is a self-realisation that comes to Sen at the end? Please elaborate.

In his travel account Sen documents his experiences of journeying to various places of religious significance, namely Devaprayag, Rudraprayag, Karnaprayag, Vishnuprayag and Joshimath before reaching the temple town of Badrinath in the upper Himalayas. He undertook this journey as a secular sojourner. But the travel impacted his soul in such a way that at the end of his narrative he admits that he had ventured in the Himalayas with a funeral pyre burning within his heart; and he merely embraced the cool breeze of the mountains with his hands and pressed the hard snow against his chest. He is doubtful whether he had the time or the state of mind to witness the eternal glory of the Lord revealed in the heavenly scenes around him. Could he lift his head and look towards heaven? That sense of wonder was absent within him. But some sort of change had already appeared within him. In this context, I feel the last two sentences of his narrative to be very significant when he states: “If anyone feels inspired to visit the Himalayas after reading this simple travel narrative of mine, then all my writing will have been worthwhile. And if anyone journeys towards the feet of the god of the Himalayas, my life would have been fulfilled.”

What was your favourite part of the book. Did you enjoy translating some things over others? Please elaborate.

There are several sections in the book which I really enjoyed translating. Most of them relate to specific incidents that Sen encountered during his travels and how human nature was the same everywhere. The first one was when they were on their way to Devaprayag and in his diary entry on 11^th May, he tells us about the incident when his money pouch along with the Swamiji’s tiger skin was stolen on the way and how with the help of a panda he managed to retrieve it after a lot of effort. Though they were not very much spiritually inclined, they realized that there were crooks on the way to the pilgrimage sites who also dressed up as sadhus and everyone could not be trusted in good faith.

The second memorable incident is when trekking during extremely inclement weather — rain and thunderstorm– and when stones rushed down from the mountain slopes nearly killed them, how Achyutananda or Vaidantik who was accompanying them managed to protect him by shielding from the natural calamities with his own body as a mother hen does to protect her chicks.

The third interesting incident that Sen narrates is dated 3^rd June when they got stranded at a chati in Pipul Kuthi. The head constable or jamadar sahib arrived there to enquire about a theft and Sen tells us how even in that remote mountainous region, the police had the reputation for rudeness and stern behaviour as the Bengal police had. He writes, “These officers, tasked with restraining wrongdoers and protecting civil society, displayed the same demeanour no matter where they were stationed. It seemed that the police were the same everywhere.”

Another memorable section is when they chance upon a young boy who probably ran away from his house and was trekking with them for some part of the way. The way in which the sick lad was ultimately deposited under the care of a doctor in the local hospital is extremely moving. Several other sections can also be mentioned here but it will turn my reply excessively long.

Why did you feel the need to bring this book to a wider readership? Are you translating more of his books?

I have already mentioned the importance of Sen’s travelogue in charting the long tradition and rich repertoire of Bengali travel narratives on the Himalayas that focus on travel as pilgrimage. As early as 1853, Jadunath Sarbadhikari embarked on a journey from a small village in Bengal to visit the sacred shrines of Kedarnath and Badrinath. Returning in 1857, he chronicled his travels in Tirtha Bhraman (1865). Two lesser-known pilgrimages to the Himalayas were undertaken by monks of the Ramkrishna Mission order – Swami Akhandananda and Swami Apurvananda—in 1887 and 1939, respectively. Their travelogues were published many years later by Udbodhan Karyalaya, the official mouthpiece of the Mission. In both narratives, we find vivid details of the hardships of travelling during that period, marked by limited financial resources and minimal material comforts.

Jaladhar Sen’s narrative also holds a significant position in this chronological trend of writing about travelling in the Himalayas. From the 1960s onwards we find a proliferation of Himalayan travel writing in Bangla by writers such as Prabodh Kumar Sanyal, Shonku Maharaj, Umaprasad Mukhopadhyay and others, and many of these texts need to be translated provided one finds a responsive publisher for them. I am not translating Jaladhar Sen anymore, though as a prolific writer Sen authored about forty-two books, including novels, travelogues, works with social messages, children’s literature, and biographies.

How do you choose which text to translate? You always seem focussed on writers who lived a couple of centuries ago. Why do you not translate modern writers?

There is no hard and fast rule for selecting which text I want to translate. I have already translated several travel texts by Bengali women beginning from Krishnabhabini Das’s A Bengali Lady in England, 1876, to later ones. But I have not translated any travelogue about the Himalayas before. Here I must be candid about two issues. I pick upon writers usually whose texts are free of copyright as that does not entail a lot of extra work securing permissions etc. The second more practical reason is that I still have a long bucket list of translations I would like to do provided I find an agreeing publisher. But that is very difficult because several of my proposals have been rejected by publishing houses because they feel it will not be marketable in the current scenario.

As for the query about translating modern writers let me narrate a particular incident. As a woman writer and as someone interested in translating travel narratives of all kinds, I had approached Nabanita Dev Sen through a willing publisher to translate her visit to the Kumbh Mela that she wrote about in her book titled Koruna Tomar Kone Poth Diye[3]. After seeking necessary permission and meeting her personally on several occasions to discuss several chapters, I gradually got frustrated because even after three sets of corrections, the translation did not satisfy her.

She consulted several other people, including her own daughter, and ultimately told me that she couldn’t accept my translation because she ‘didn’t find herself in it.’ The colloquial Bangla humour in some places were not sufficiently translated. As far as I got to know from the publisher, she changed editors thrice, and in the end the translated book was published with one of the editors named as the ‘translator’. When I chanced to meet her at my university on a different occasion, Nabaneetadi told me that she had mentioned my name in the acknowledgement section of the book, which of course I didn’t bother to buy or check. From such a bitter experience, I feel staying with writers dead long ago is a safer bet for me.

You are working on a new translation. Will you tell us a bit about your forthcoming book?

As I have already mentioned, I found Swami Ramananda Bharati’s Himaranya (The Forest of Snow) to be a companion piece for translation. Not only is this significant because it was the same Swamiji with whom Jaladhar Sen travelled to the Himalayas, and though his name is not mentioned anywhere by Sen, we get to know a lot about him already through his narrative. As a monk, Bharati travelled to Mount Kailash and Manas Sarovar in Tibet during 1898, the first Bengali to do so. These travels form the basis of Himaranya. It was not entirely ‘spiritual’ or ‘theological’ but rather depended on the traveller’s own temperament. There are presentations of secular interests and considerations, and modern readers can relate to them easily, especially because the route to Kailash and Manas Sarovar has now been opened for Indian pilgrims once again and several groups are going there every other day. The manuscript is already with the publisher and hopefully the book should see the light of day by the end of this year if everything goes well.

You have translated so many voyages by Tagore, by Sen, do you now want to bring out your own travelogues or memoirs?

I have been translating travel narratives of different kinds for a long time now. I still plan to do a few more if I get a proper publisher for the same. I am an avid traveller myself and have actually trekked to Kedarnath, Badrinath, Gangotri and Yamunotri twice. I have also trekked for fourteen days to visit Muktinath in Nepal way back in the early 1980s, and during the pandemic days when I was confined at home, I managed to key in that experience in Bangla from the diary I kept at that time. That narrative was published in the online journal Parabaas which is published from the United States. But I have never taken writing about my own travelogues or memoirs seriously. Of course, last year and also forthcoming this year, a special Puja Festive number of a Bengali magazine has been publishing my travel articles. But there is nothing serious or academic about it.

Do you have any advice for fledging writers or translators?

Translating has caught up in a big way over the past five or six years. Now big publishing houses are venturing into publishing from regional bhasha literatures into English and so the possibilities are endless. Now every other day we come across new titles which are translations of regional novels or short stories. My only advice for young writers or translators is that since copyright permissions have become quite rigid and complicated nowadays, it is always advisable to seek permission from the respective authorities before venturing into translating anything. I was quite young and naïve earlier and just translated things I liked without seeking prior approval and as usual those works never saw the light of day. Also, as time went by, I learnt that translating should have as its prime motive current readability and not always rigidly adhering to being very particular about remaining close to each individual line of the source text. The target readership should also be kept in mind and so the choice of words used and glossary should be eliminated or kept to a minimum. The meaning of a foreign word should as far as possible be embedded within the text itself. All these issues would definitely make translating an enjoyable experience.

Thanks for the wonderful translation and your time.

[1] Mendicants. Sadhu and swami also have the same meaning

[2] Marijuana

[3] Translates from Bengali to The Path to Compassion, published in 1978. The translation was published by Supernova Publishers in 2012 as The Holy Trail: A Pilgrims Plight. Soma Das is mentioned as the translator.

(This review and online interview is by Mitali Chakravarty)

Click here to read an excerpt from Somdatta Mandal’s translation of Jaladhar Sen’s Travels

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

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Tags A Bengali Lady in England, Badrinath, Bangla, Baul Kangal Harinath, Bengal, Bengali, Bharati, Britain, Calcutta University., Dehradun, Devaprayag, Gangotri, Hanuman, Haridwar, Himalay, Himalayas, Himaranya, In a Land Far from Home: A Bengali in Afghanistan., Jadunath Sarbadhikari, Jaladhar Sen, Joshimath, Karnaprayag, Kedarnath, Krishnabhabini Das, Kumbh Mela, Kumbhakarna, Manas Sarovar, Mount Kailash, Muktinath, Nazes Afroz, Nepal, Prabodh Kumar Sanyal, Puranas, Rabindranath Tagore, Rudraprayag, Santiniketan, Sarala Devi Choudhurani, Shonku Maharaj, Somdatta Mandal, South Asia, Speaking Tiger Books, Swami Ramananda Bharati, Syed Mujtaba Ali, Tagore, Tirtha Bhraman, Umaprasad Mukhopadhyay, United States, Vishnuprayag, Yamunotri

Notes from Japan

Contending with a Complicated History

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date September 15, 2025
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Photographs and narrative by Suzanne Kamata

I felt some trepidation as I prepared to enter the United States from Japan. It would be my first time to return to my native country since the new administration took office. Rumour had it that immigration officials would check my phone for leftist activity on social networks (they didn’t). I’d heard about books being banned, libraries and museums being closed, and the words “diversity,” “equity,” and “inclusion” being suddenly prohibited in government documents.

My parents, originally from Michigan, in the North, live in South Carolina. This is where the Civil War began in 1861 when state legislators voted to secede from the union. They wanted to preserve slavery and allow its expansion into western territories. South Carolina and six other Southern states formed what was called the Confederacy.

The Confederate flag, a symbol, for many, of an ugly past, was first flown from a flagpole in front of the capitol building in 1961, in commemoration of the hundredth anniversary of the Civil War. It remained flying in protest of the Civil Rights movement, and was only taken down in 2017, after a twenty-one-year-old white supremacist entered a historically black church in Charleston and opened fire on a prayer group. He killed nine people and injured one. Now the flag is on display in a special room at the State Museum.

My visit to South Carolina coincided with a visit from my son, a student of history with a keen interest in politics. My dad thought it might be fun to take his grandson to the Statehouse for a tour. My son was enthusiastic about this idea. I went along, too, with some reservations.

We drove into the city of Columbia and parked in a public lot at the back of the Statehouse. As we entered the grounds, we came upon a statue of Strom Thurmond. He was a teacher, a lawyer, and a highly decorated soldier. He served as governor of South Carolina from 1947-1951, and as senator for 47 years after that, right up until his death at the age of 100. Until very recently, he held the record for the longest filibuster, which is a tactic used to delay voting upon a contentious bill. Basically, a senator takes the floor and keeps talking for as long as he possibly can. In August of 1957, Strom Thurmond gave a speech lasting 24 hours and 18 minutes in opposition to a law promoting civil rights. After his death, it was revealed that he had fathered a child with his family’s 16-year-old African American maid. Of course, that is not inscribed on the plaque at the base of the statue.

To be honest, I had expected to see this statue, as well as other monuments devoted to Confederate generals and segregationists. But I was pleasantly surprised to find a new monument commemorating the accomplishments of South Carolinian African Americans.

We went inside the building and were ushered to a room off to the side for a short film before the tour began. I noted that the film was narrated by a young African American man, which seemed like a nod to diversity, equity and inclusion. He mentioned, perhaps with false pride, that Strom Thurmond held the record for longest filibuster in the history of the United States. Nevertheless, I was glad to see that the film highlighted the achievements of women and minorities, such as South Carolina’s first – and so far, only – female governor, Nikki Haley, the one who ordered that the Confederate flag be removed from state grounds.

During the rest of the tour, I breathed a bit easier, admiring the intricate ironwork on the stair railings, and the stained glass above the chambers. I enjoyed hearing that Magdalen Feline, a woman goldsmith had crafted the symbolic mace, which is placed in a rack at the front of the Speaker’s podium when the House of Representatives is in session. And I was pleased to see a portrait of African American educator, philanthropist, and civil rights activist Mary McLeod Bethune (1875-1955) prominently displayed.

South Carolina is a complicated state, and this is an increasingly complicated world. However, going on this tour gave me hope that my fellow Americans might get back to celebrating diversity, equity, and inclusion, and all of the best parts of human nature.

Suzanne Kamata was born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.

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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Tags Civil War, Columbia, Japan, Magdalen Feline, Mary Mcleod bethune, Michigan, Nikki Haley, Paris Book Festival, South Carolina, Strom Thurmond, Suzanne Kamata, United States

Feature

In Translation: Bitan Chakraborty

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date June 16, 2025
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The story of Hawakal and a conversation with the founder, Bitan Chakraborty, whose responses have been translated from Bengali by Kiriti Sengupta.

Hawakal Publishers grew out of the compulsive need young Bitan Chakraborty had to express and connect. This was a young man who was willing to labour at pasting film hoardings to fund his dreams. An Information Technology professional by training, Chakraborty realised early he did not want to tread on trodden paths and started his journey as a creative individual. Now, he not only writes and publishes but also designs the most fabulous covers and supports local craftsmen.

Over the last nearly two decades, the brand Hawakal has become synonymous with traditional poetry publication from India. They do not offer buy back deals or ask to be paid like most publishers but pick selectively. No one seems to know what it is they look for. All Chakraborty says is – “We aimed to introduce a fresh wave in publishing.”

First Bengali book by Hawakal: *Ut Palaker Dairy* – Diary of a Camel Herder published in 2009

Chakraborty writes fully in Bengali which is why the dentist-turned-writer-turned-publisher, Kiriti Sengupta, had to chip in with the translation of his responses in Bengali. Their friendship matured over the last decade when Sengupta approached Chakraborty to publish a book of critical essays, which along with essays on Sharmila Ray’s poetry homed critical writing on his too. This was the first English publication of Hawakal.

Sengupta had given up dentistry by then and was living in a hostel on a packet of Maggi a day to indulge his creative passions. A skilled poet with a number of books under his belt, he eventually joined Chakraborty to run the English section of Hawakal. He also translates from Bengali to English. We have one of his translations of Chakraborty’s short story, Disappearance. A powerful reminder of social gaps that exist in the Subcontinent, it’s a poignant and frightening narrative, the kind someone writes and imagines out of a passion to reform.

Some of Bitan’s works are available in English. His style — by the translations — seems graphic. The deft strokes make the landscape and the stories almost visual, like films.

Chakraborty worked with ‘Little Magazines’ for some time. Then he made his way into publishing full time. Though he found it hard to make ends meet, he started his adventure without compromising his beliefs. He wanted to take books to readers and, with that spirit, they started the Ethos Literary Festival, where they host writers published by them. In fact, in the 2025 festival, Hawakal sold more than 400 books in seven hours! Who said poetry doesn’t sell?

Chakraborty and Sengupta have yet another hallmark. They wear matching clothes. These are tailored with material sourced from handloom weavers. They resorted to this when they found that commercialisation was killing the traditional homeborn handlooms. In that spirit, they started a clothes venture too, Mrinalika Weaves.

Chakraborty is an unusual person – as the interview will reveal – humble, stubborn with aims like no other publisher or writer in this day and age! He doesn’t talk of money, survival, politics, awards or glamour, but what matters to him. He is direct and straightforward and perhaps, his directness is what makes his outlook appealing. He translates a few to Bengali for his own growth. But these are poets who are known for their terse writing. Maybe, that is what he looks for… Let’s find out!

Conversation

Bitan Chakraborty. Photo Courtesy: Kiriti Sengupta

Bitan, you are a multifaceted person: a writer, an artist, a photographer, and, most importantly, a publisher for all writers. What is it you most love to do and why?

I need to talk. What I observe or learn from my experiences compels me to express myself. Therefore, regardless of the medium I use, I strive to convey meaningful messages. Nevertheless, the range I enjoy in weaving words is unparalleled.

What sparked your interest in writing? Please elaborate. Do you only use Bengali to communicate with others? Do you translate from other languages to Bengali?

I felt emotionally down when I began writing. What a dreadful time it was! I believe it must be the emotional turmoil of my youth. However, writing has never left me since then. It’s more accurate to say that I have never managed to rid myself of my urge to write. During the early period, my writings contained more emotion than substance. In my college years, I was engaged in student movements that helped me discover the purpose of words. Society, socio-economic status, politics, and human dissatisfaction are the themes that run through my stories. Bengali is my mother tongue: I think, speak, dream, and curse in Bengali. I find it challenging to derive the same pleasure from using another language; it is my shortcoming.

Nevertheless, when I meet outstanding works in English, I attempt to translate them into Bengali. Not everything I read, but I have translated poems by Sanjeev Sethi and Kiriti Sengupta. I have consistently translated Gulzar into Bengali, but it has yet to be published in book format. Translation is a mental exercise; it particularly helps when I am experiencing writer’s block. I read poetry when I wish to untangle my thoughts, and when I come across fine poems in another language, I try to make them my own — bring them into my culture through translation.

Do you write only prose or poetry too?

I have been writing stories and essays for the past fifteen years. Interestingly, I began with poems, but they turned out to be junk. Therefore, I focussed on writing fiction.

Many of your stories focus on the Bengali middle class. What inspires your muse the most? People, art, nature, or is it something else?

I grew up in a lower-middle-class environment. Poverty, unemployment, and debt were parts of my formative years. I witnessed how this economic disparity allowed a particular segment of society to insult and humiliate others. Consequently, I have developed a strong affinity for those who are underprivileged. Later, when I began writing fiction, my political awareness enhanced my observations — I was able to merge the existing economic inequality with the nation’s political perspectives. The lessons I have learned over the years motivate me to write.

You design fabulous book covers. Do you have any formal training, or is it a natural flair?

When I entered the publishing industry, I had no funds to commission professionals for book covers or layouts. I had been involved with Little Magazines since my college days. I used to spend hours with the printers, meticulously observing how they designed cover spreads and interior text files. This experience proved useful when I began producing books. For the past several years, I have frequented bookstores, picking up a book or two — I also purchase books online, especially those that help me stay abreast of recent developments in book architecture. In my early years, I was unable to learn design formally due to financial constraints.

When and why did you decide to go into publishing? Could you tell us the story of Hawakal?

From 2003 to 2008, I was involved with four Little Magazines. Bengali Little Magazines thrive on minimal funds. Therefore, we (the team) managed everything necessary to publish a little magazine. We oversaw printing, distribution, book fairs, and other activities. By the middle of 2007, I realised I wasn’t suited for a day job. I understood that I would struggle to survive the conventional 10 am to 5 pm career. During that time, my family was in financial difficulties. Suddenly, we had the opportunity to publish Kishore Ghosh’s debut collection of poems, Ut Palaker Diary. It was published under the banner of the little magazine I was actively working with. As we worked on the book, I learned that publishing a magazine and publishing a book were entirely different endeavours. A little magazine is primarily sold through the efforts of its contributing writers and poets, while a book is sold through the combined efforts of the author and the publisher. I decided to pursue publishing as my career after we successfully sold 300 copies of Ghosh’s book in 10 months. That was the beginning.

Why did you opt to name your firm after a windmill — Hawakal in Bengali? Please elaborate.

We spent days selecting a name for our publishing concern. Finally, we chose the title of one of Kishore Ghosh’s poems as our company name. Hawakal, in English, means windmill. It signifies an alternative source of energy. We aimed to introduce a fresh wave in publishing. As an independent press, we have consistently operated ahead of our time. From developing a fully-fledged e-commerce hub (hawakal.com) in 2016 to producing the highest number of books during the pandemic (2020-2021), Hawakal has accomplished it all.

The first logo of Hawakal designed by contemporary artist, Hiran Mitra and then modified over time by Bitan Chakraborty.

You have boutique bookshops in Kolkata, Delhi — any other places? I believe you started a collaboration to get your books into the USA? Could you tell us a bit about your outlets and how you connect writers with the people? Are your boutique shops different from other bookshops? Do they only stock Hawakal books?

As you know, Hawakal has two functional ateliers in Delhi and Kolkata, while our registered office is located in New Delhi. We do not have any plans for an additional studio in India. We also have a bookstore in Gurgaon called Bookalign. There is a small outlet in Nokomis, Florida. It is a new unit in the United States. We primarily stock books published by Hawakal and its imprints (Shambhabi, CLASSIX, Vinyasa). However, we carefully select titles from other publishers for our store. We have sufficient seating in the store, allowing readers to browse the books before making a purchase. Since we publish non-mainstream authors, readers need to make a conscious choice. This not only benefits the authors we publish, but it also helps us evaluate the effectiveness of our selection process.

You started as a Bengali publisher, if I am not mistaken, and then forayed into English; now you are bringing out a translation in Hindi? How many languages do you cover? Do you plan to go into publishing in other languages?

We initially focused on Bengali books. Our venture into English titles began when Kiriti Sengupta joined Hawakal as its Director. Publishing a Hindi book was unexpected. However, we will not release books in other languages that we cannot read or speak. It is essential, as a publisher, to be well-versed in the language of the books we publish.

What kind of writers do you look for in Hawakal?

Would you like me to reveal the truth? We expect more than just satisfactory work from our writers: we want writers who will value their work passionately and take the necessary steps to reach a wider readership. Please don’t assume that what we expect from our authors is not something we adhere to ourselves. We expect this because we understand what it means to be truly passionate about one’s writing.

I heard that Hawakal was diversifying into textiles. How does that align with your writerly and publishing journey?

We opened our first kiosk in Mathabhanga, North Bengal, back in 2016. We simultaneously sold books and sarees from that small outlet. We had to close the shop due to a lack of staff. Kiriti Sengupta has long cherished the dream of representing the fine textiles of Bengal. Our family has grown larger. Bhaswati Sengupta and Lima Nayak have joined the team; they are the ones who established Mrinalika, collaborating with artisans from remote regions of India to showcase their creations to a wider audience.

Where do you envision yourself and Hawakal, your most extraordinary creation, ten years from now?

We aim to publish fifty timeless books over the next decade.

Thanks for your time and for the service you render to readers and writers.

*Cinema’s Artform* edited by Bitshok Bhattacharya

[1] Ut Palaker Diary – Diary of a Camel Herder

Click here to read Disappearance, a story by Bitan translated from Bengali by Kiriti Sengupta.

(This feature — based on a face to face conversation — and online interview is by Mitali Chakravarty)

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 Kindle Amazon International

Notes from Japan

Feeling Anxious in Happy Village

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date May 14, 2025
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Narratives and photographs by Suzanne Kamata

A few weeks ago, my daughter invited me to go on an outing with her and her helper. My daughter, who is deaf and uses a wheelchair, lives in a group home in Osaka. She is becoming more and more independent, but she does have kind people around her to give her support, including a helper who is also deaf and uses Japanese Sign Language.

Actually, my daughter invited our entire family to accompany her and her helper on a weekend to Happy Village, a recreational facility in Kobe especially for persons with disabilities. We had visited the onsite stables years ago, and our twins had ridden around a ring on ponies. Having such pleasant memories of the place, I looked forward to visiting again.

My husband declined due to a golf tournament, and my son, who had just entered college as a graduate student, was concerned that he would have too much homework. My daughter informed me that her brother would meet us for a meal.

Although I was looking forward to seeing my daughter and getting to know her helper, I did have a few concerns. For one, I don’t have the confidence to drive in the megapolises of Japan. Kobe, for example, is a confusing city with many ramps, overpasses, and one-way streets, not to mention the traffic. I knew that Happy Village was on the outskirts, however, and I thought that maybe I could get myself there by car. I could have gone by bus or train, but it would have taken me two or three times as long to get there.

In addition, I was a bit worried about communication. I can converse with my daughter, more or less, in Japanese Sign Language, but my signing is not perfect. Since leaving home, my daughter’s vocabulary has expanded, and her signing has sped up. When among fluent JSL users, I can’t always follow the flurry of their fingers. Nevertheless, I know that my daughter often struggles to keep up with what hearing people are saying, and I thought it would be a valuable experience.

A couple days before, my daughter sent me a Google Maps link to the restaurant where we would meet. We would have a meal and then proceed to Happy Village. On the day of, I packed a bag, filled my car with gas, and set out. I had no idea what we would be doing. On trips with my husband, every hour was pre-planned. I thought it would be nice to just go with the flow. I was looking forward to seeing my two kids.

I managed to arrive at the restaurant with ten minutes to spare. I staked out a table and sat down to wait. While perusing my phone, I came across a link that I thought would interest my son. I sent it to him. He replied with a laughing emoji, followed by “Are you coming to Kobe tomorrow?”

A cold sweat broke out over me. “Tomorrow? I thought it was today.”

“She told me tomorrow,” he texted back.

“Oh, no.” I quickly scrolled through our communications and confirmed that we were indeed meeting him the following day. It was now ten minutes after the time I had agreed to rendezvous with my daughter at this restaurant. Or so I thought. Was I supposed to meet her tomorrow? Would I have to find a hotel for the night?

Panicking, I sent my daughter a text and a photo of the restaurant. “I’m here!”

She texted back that they would be a little late, and that there would be six of them.

Six! I had thought that there would only be the three of us. Now I was feeling really intimidated. I am an introvert, and I know my limits. The more people there are around me, the more I retreat into myself. Plus, there was the issue of communication.

Finally, my daughter and her entourage arrived. I met her helper, the helper’s husband, the helper’s twin sister, an older woman with cropped hair and rainbow socks, and a young man about my daughter’s age. We got down to the business of ordering food via the tablet on the table, and sorting our basic facts, such as my age, and that we would be meeting my son the following day at Sannomiya Station.

Sannomiya Station! That was in a busy district in the heart of Kobe. I hadn’t known that we were actually going into the city. I managed to sign that I was scared of driving in such an unfamiliar place. I was beginning to realise that I should have pried more details about this trip out of my daughter beforehand.

Three hours later, I followed the others in my car to Happy Village. My daughter and I were in one room, the others in their own rooms. By this time, my social battery was waning. I was ready to take a bath and curl up in bed with a book. My daughter, who is an extrovert, went down the hall for a couple more hours of JSL conversation and cake with her friends.

The next morning, we checked out of the hotel and stopped by the stables. Just as before, children rode ponies around the ring. My daughter zoomed around in her wheelchair, and the rest of us tried to keep up.

Next, we dropped by the helper’s apartment. I was invited to leave my car in the parking garage, and ride in the car with the others, for which I was very grateful. As we headed toward Kobe, I noted how quiet it was inside the car. No one tried to talk or sign. It would have been dangerous for the driver to take his hands off the wheel to form words, or to look away from the road for too long.

We finally connected with my son, and went to a restaurant. Because there were so many of us, we split up. My kids and I sat at one table, and the others sat at another. I brought my son up in English, and it remains our lingua franca. After my son and daughter exchanged a few words in sign language, my son and I talked a bit about the recent political situation in the United States. Although my daughter was curious, I couldn’t quite explain to her what we were talking about in JSL. I encouraged her to write notes to her brother. They communicated by pen and paper for a while.

After lunch, my son went back to his apartment to prepare a PowerPoint for his class the next day. The rest of us wandered around the city, window-shopping, until it was time for me to leave. My daughter wasn’t ready to go home, so the helper’s husband offered to give me a ride back to my car.

On the way, he said, “When you were talking to your son, your daughter didn’t understand.”

“That’s true,” I conceded. “We were speaking in English.” Although I had wanted to bring up my daughter in English, circumstances made it too difficult. Yet, my son was the only one in our family that I could freely communicate with in my native language.

“I felt sorry for her,” the helper’s husband continued.

I nodded. I had an idea of how my daughter felt. Although I had lived in Japan for many years, I often didn’t fully understand what people were saying around me.

He activated an app on his smartphone, which was affixed to the dashboard, which rendered spoken words into text. He suggested that my daughter could use such an app. I tried to explain that she already knew how to use the app, but for some reason she hadn’t tried to employ it in the restaurant.

I guess I could have been offended by his words, but instead I was moved. I was happy that my daughter was surrounded by people who cared so much about her, who were looking out for her best interests. How wonderful that she had finally found her tribe.

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

Tags English, Grand Haven, Happy Village, Japan, Japanese Sign Language, Kobe, Michigan, Osaka, Paris, Paris Book Festiva;, PowerPoint, Suzanne Kamata, United States

Conversation

From Ukraine to America: A story of Resilience

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date December 16, 2024
No Comments on From Ukraine to America: A story of Resilience

Lara Geyla converses about her memoir, Camels from Kyzylkum, and her journey as an immigrant.

A migrant’s journey is never easy – it’s rife with adjustments and changes. Adapting to a country that is totally different from the one in which an immigrant is born, requires adjustments of various kinds, including learning new languages. Migrants also need to find acceptance and friends in the country they move to as did Lara Geyla, when she migrated out of a crumbling USSR to America, pausing by the way of Austria and Italy. She recorded her journey in Camels from Kyzylkum: A Memoir of my Life Journey.

Kyzylkum is a desert located in Uzbekistan. Geyla lived and worked in the desert for twenty years. She learnt that the camels were the hardiest of creatures. Her life’s journey like that of any other immigrant, had been hard. So, at the start of her memoir, she tells us: “I am a camel from Kyzylkum, too. Like a camel, I have adapted and found ways to help myself survive in the desert. As a camel stores his energy in its hump as part of its legendary ability to travel hundreds of miles without food and water, I stored the energy of my spirit to help me stay strong as I crossed continents alone, with two suitcases and $140 in my pocket in my search for a better life.”

Perhaps, this is a resilience that each migrant needs to unearth to settle into a country of their choosing, or sometimes thrust on them due to external factors like war and climate change. Through her memoir, we get glimpses of different parts of the world as she inched her way closer to the country she sought. People helped her along. At one point, when she arrived at the wrong destination for an interview with the American embassy that was crucial to her move to the country of her choice, an Italian taxi driver drove her at breakneck speed to the right address, where after a few questions, she was given the permission to emigrate.

This was in the 1990s. After moving to America, she helped more of her family to move to the country which gave her refuge. She found acceptance in a firm as a programmer/ analyst in Maryland. She lives now in her new home in Florida with her new family and friends and basks in their acceptance and love. In this exclusive, she talks to us of her journey.

Tell us what made you write Camel from Kyzylkum?

I had wanted to write my life story for a long time, as I believed my life journey was filled with incredible places and events. However, while I was working, I never had the time to focus on writing. Even then, I knew that if I ever wrote a book, it would be titled Camel from Kyzylkum. I finally wrote my story during the COVID 19 pandemic in 2020–21, when we were confined to our home.

Where in the Soviet Union did you grow up? What was your childhood like? Tell us about your schooling and a child’s life in the Soviet Union? How was it different from what we find in other countries?

I was born into a Jewish family in Vinnitsa, a city in southwestern Ukraine, not far from the capital, Kiev. At the time, Ukraine was part of the Soviet Union. Life wasn’t easy for those born into Jewish families in the Soviet Union; being Jewish was considered a nationality, not a religion. In fact, during my time there, we lived under the slogan: “Religion is poison for the people.” Religion was heavily suppressed, and atheism was strongly promoted during my time there. Although I grew up much like other children—playing the same games and attending the same schools—I was aware from a young age that there was a stigma attached to being Jewish. I felt different but didn’t understand why. After 1948, anti-semitism in the Soviet Union reached new heights, particularly during the anti-cosmopolitan campaign, when numerous Yiddish poets, writers, painters, and sculptors were arrested or killed. During my time there, antisemitism was consistently supported by the Soviet state and used as a tool to consolidate power.

When I was about 12 years old, my parents divorced, and my mother and I moved to Belarus to live with my grandmother. We all shared the same apartment. Soon after, I was sent to a boarding school, which I hated but had no choice and stayed there until I graduated. I’ve written about all of this in my book.

How was life different from what we find in other countries? That likely depends on the country you compare it to. Despite the many challenges and negative aspects of life in the Soviet Union, one notable advantage was the education system. It was of quite high quality, mandatory, and free.

You moved with your husband to the desert of Kyzylkum. What was it like living in the desert? In tents?

For the first three years, our young family lived in a small settlement belonging to a geological expedition. It really was in the middle of nowhere. The nearest civilized city, Navoi, was 200 kilometers (124 miles) away. Our settlement, simply called Geological Party #10, and it consisted of about two dozen barracks under the blistering sun, set in a barren landscape devoid of vegetation and offering hostile living conditions for humans, plants, and animals alike. The summers were extremely hot. The winters were harsh. At night, the wind became a growling, tumbling mix of sand and snow. I lay awake for hours, listening to the eerie howling outside. It was one of those winds that frayed nerves, made your hair stand on end, and left your skin crawling.

After three years, we moved to Muruntau, a slightly larger geological settlement, but we still lived in barracks. From there, we relocated to Zarafshan, a city in the heart of the Kyzylkum Desert of Uzbekistan, where we finally got our first apartment.

I have written extensively about our life in Zarafshan in my memoir, Camel from Kyzylkum. However, you might find it interesting to read an article by a Canadian reporter who accidentally stumbled upon Zarafshan while exploring Google Earth. He wrote and published the piece online in 2011, In Zarafshan.

What work were you doing there? What jobs did you do in the USSR? Did you go back to university there?

I earned my degree from a geological college in Kiev and worked as a geophysicist in the Kyzylkum Desert, focusing on gold and uranium deposits. Geophysics involves using surface methods and specialised equipment to measure the physical properties of the Earth’s subsurface and identify anomalies. These measurements help to make interpretations about a geological site, detect and infer the presence and location of ore minerals. Geophysical data is then integrated with surface geological observations to develop a comprehensive understanding of a region’s geological structure and history.

My job required me to work in various environments, including the open fields of the desert, open-pit and underground mines, as well as in the office. In fact, the Muruntau gold deposit in the Kyzylkum Desert, where I once worked, was and still is being mined as the world’s largest open-pit gold mine.

You have told us you were part Ukrainian and part Jewish? Judaism is faith — not a geography. So, were both your parents Ukrainian?

I was born into a Jewish family in Ukraine, which was part of the Soviet Union at the time. Both of my parents were Jewish and born in the Soviet Union. In my time there, Judaism was not considered a faith but rather a nationality. Nationality was stated in one’s passport. Synagogues were closed, and like most other Jewish families in the Soviet Union, our did not follow Jewish religious or spiritual practices. Instead, we celebrated all Soviet holidays. However, I do remember my father’s family gathering for Hanukkah and giving us, little kids, gifts and money. My husband, however, was Ukrainian, which made our daughter part Ukrainian and part Jewish.

Were you there during glasnost? Did things improve for you after the Perestroika and Glasnost? Please elaborate. How long did you stay after the dissolution of the USSR within your country of birth?

I would like to answer to this question with excerpt from my memoir Camel from Kyzylkum:

“Glasnost was understood as the movement in the USSR towards greater openness and dialogue. In the period from 1987-1991, Glasnost became synonymous with “publicity,” “openness,” and it reflected a commitment by the Gorbachev administration to allow Soviet citizens to publicly discuss the problems and potential solutions of their system.

I still lived in Zarafshan and took an active part in Perestroika and Glasnost—I was not afraid to express my opinions or attend meetings. I truly believed that we could change life for the better. One day I came to work only to find out that agents from the KGB had searched my office. KGB stands for Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti, which translates to “Committee for State Security” in English.

At the time of Perestroika and Glasnost, books that previously had been available only through the underground distribution in the Soviet Union became legal, and excerpts were printed in many publications. I read a lot, and these books opened my eyes to the bloody recent history of our country—from the 1918 Revolution to the present day, on to all of the misleading, hidden truth, hypocrisies of our government, and the Soviet system as a whole. I realised that all of the concepts and ideas that they had taught us from early childhood were mendacious.”

I left the Soviet Union in October 1989, and as punishment, my citizenship was revoked. The Soviet Union ultimately collapsed on December 26, 1991, by which time I was already living in the United States.

Why did you want to move out of the Soviet Union? Can you give us the timeframe in which you moved out in terms of Glasnost and other events?

The Glasnost period in the Soviet Union was from 1987 to 1991. I left in 1989.

The late 1980s were years of exodus from the Soviet Union. Gorbachev opened the door of the “iron curtain” and everyone who could escape was leaving. I moved from Zarafshan, Uzbekistan, to Gomel, Belarus, in 1988. At that time, every single day platforms at the Gomel railroad station were full of people: families who were lucky to get exit visas, and relatives and friends who came to say their last goodbyes to them.

There was a code word: “to leave.” If you whispered it with a mysterious gravitas, there would be no need to ask further questions.

When I was asked if I would consider leaving, I said “yes” with no hesitation. I did not know what leaving would entail, but I started to go through the process as everyone else did. I apprised the family members, but there was no need or time to have long discussions—it was a once-in-a-lifetime chance, and the “iron curtain” could be down again at any time. We all knew how challenging and frightening immigration could be, but we had a hope that after all of the suffering, we could build a better life.

How is it you were on the list for visas and others were not given the privilege? Who were the people given the right to leave the Soviet Union?

Under Soviet law, no person could leave the country without the government’s permission, granted through an exit visa. This regulation applied not only to Soviet citizens but also to foreigners, including diplomatic personnel. Emigration policies varied over time and were always challenging to navigate.

In the 1970s, Jewish people in the USSR, often referred to as “refuseniks,” staged hunger strikes to protest the Soviet government’s refusal to grant them permission to emigrate to Israel. These protests highlighted the severe restrictions on their right to leave the country and garnered international attention, becoming a pivotal part of the movement advocating for Soviet Jewry, an international human rights campaign for Soviet Jews.

In the late 1980s and early 1990s, liberalised emigration policies allowed many Soviet Jews to leave, with more than half of the Jewish population emigrating, primarily to Israel, the United States, Germany, Canada, and Australia. However, it wasn’t only Jewish individuals departing; anyone who could endure the convoluted emigration process took the opportunity to leave. As a punishment, those who emigrated had their citizenship revoked.

The Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society (HIAS) played a vital role in assisting people leaving the Soviet Union, supporting them on their journeys to new destinations. HIAS continues to advocate for the protection of refugees and ensures displaced individuals are treated with the dignity they deserve.

For me, navigating the bureaucratic barriers of Soviet emigration policies in the late 1980s was extremely difficult, but my Jewish heritage worked to my advantage. After overcoming numerous hurdles, I left the Soviet Union at the end of October 1989. I had two suitcases, $140 in my pocket, and no certainty about my final destination. With my Soviet citizenship revoked, I became a “citizen of the World”.

Why did you choose to move to the USA over all other countries?

When I left the Soviet Union at the end of October 1989, I knew my point of departure but not necessarily my destination. The only identity document I had was an exit visa from the USSR and the train ticket to Vienna, Austria. I held no citizenship in any country and knew very little about immigration laws or processes. My ultimate goal was to reach America because I believed that the United States was the land of opportunity like no other country. During my interview in Austria, I was given the option to select a country I wanted to go to, and I chose the United States.

Other than language, did you have to study further to get a job in the US? How is working in the US different from working in the USSR?

Yes, I wore many hats and attended various schools before landing my professional job in the USA. First, I had to learn English. My journey began with earning a certificate as a nurse assistant. Next, I attended school to become a medical assistant, followed by completing a two-year program and passing the exam to become an X-ray technician. I worked in that role until I later completed a course for computer programming.

My first job in the US, however, was clearing tables at Burger King. I worked as a waitress, cleaned people’s houses, worked in department stores, and babysat young children. I did whatever it took to survive and was never afraid of hard work.

Working in the US was vastly different from working in the USSR, mainly because of the many barriers I faced: learning a new language, navigating cultural differences, adapting to unfamiliar social norms, and constantly acquiring new skills. Despite the challenges, I succeeded. Now, I’m happily retired, enjoying life in a beautiful community in Southwest Florida.

Have you ever returned to Russia after you migrated? How did you find it, especially as the Soviet Union broke up into so many countries?

My husband and I traveled to Ukraine in 2010, by which time it was an independent country. This was after the Orange Revolution¹, a series of protests primarily in Kiev in response to election fraud. The revolution, which unfolded between late November 2004 and January 2005, brought significant political upheaval. Viktor Yushchenko was elected president on December 26, 2004, after weeks of turmoil that thrust the country into chaos.

As the informal leader of the Ukrainian opposition coalition, Yushchenko was one of two main candidates in the 2004 presidential election, the other being Prime Minister Viktor Yanukovych. During the campaign, Yushchenko survived an assassination attempt when he was poisoned with dioxin, leaving him disfigured. Despite this, he persevered and emerged victorious in the re-run election.

When we visited Ukraine in July 2010, the memory of the Orange Revolution was still fresh. We explored many cities, stayed with my childhood friend in Vinnitsia, and visited relatives in Yalta, Crimea. Crimea, sadly, was annexed from Ukraine by Russia in 2014.

The changes in Ukraine since my time living there were noticeable, but some things remained the same. We especially enjoyed our time in Yalta—a vibrant city filled with cheerful faces, where people celebrated life at this beautiful Black Sea resort.

In June 2018, during a cruise around the Baltic countries, we spent a day in St. Petersburg, Russia. The city and its museums are undeniably remarkable, as they always have been. However, the rude customs control at the port, long lines at the museums, being rushed through the exhibits, and other all-too-familiar experiences immediately brought back unpleasant memories from the past. After this brief visit, I have no desire to ever return to this country.

So, are you writing more books?

I’m considering it. However, finding the time to focus has been challenging. Between our extensive travels, my photography and video projects, marketing my memoir, and other everyday activities, my schedule hasn’t left much room for writing another book.

Thanks for giving us your time.

Click here to read an excerpt from Camels from Kyzylkum

(This online interview has been conducted by Mitali Chakravarty.)

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Disclaimer: The opinions expressed are solely that of the interviewee and not of the Borderless Journal.

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Orange Revolution took place in Ukraine between November 2004 to January 2005, primarily a response to the Presidential elections ↩︎

Review

A Saga of Self-empowerment in Adversity

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date December 16, 2024
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Book Review by Bhaskar Parichha

Title: Daughter of The Agunmukha: A Bangla Life

Author: Noorjahan Bose (Author), Rebecca Whittington (Translator)

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

This memoir recounts the journey of a young woman from a small island in Bangladesh who discovers the works of Tagore, Marx, and de Beauvoir, ultimately emerging as a prominent advocate for feminist causes.

Noorjahan Bose is a feminist author, social advocate, and activist resides between the United States and Bangladesh. She is the founder of two organizations based in the US aimed at empowering South Asian women: Ashiyanaa (previously known as ASHA) and Samhati. Rebecca Whittington serves as a literary translator specialising in Tamil, Bangla, and Hindi.

The narrative of Daughter of the Agunmukha[1] intricately weaves the life story of Noorjahan Bose, a remarkable woman whose journey is marked by resilience, courage, and an unwavering quest for freedom. Born in 1938 in a rural area of what is now Bangladesh, Noorjahan’s early life was deeply intertwined with the rhythms of nature and the struggles of her family, who were farmers living in close proximity to the tumultuous River Agunmukha, ominously referred to as the Fire Mouth River. This river, with its fierce currents and unpredictable nature, serves as a powerful metaphor for the challenges Noorjahan would face throughout her life.

From a young age, Noorjahan was thrust into a world of hardship and trauma. She endured sexual abuse at the hands of male relatives, a harrowing experience that left deep emotional scars. Compounding her struggles was the influence of her mother, who, having been a child bride herself, was often constrained by the societal norms and expectations of their time. Despite her own limitations, Noorjahan’s mother became a beacon of hope and creativity in her life. She instilled in Noorjahan a sense of joy and the importance of self-expression, encouraging her to explore her talents and dreams even in the face of adversity.

As Noorjahan grew older, her thirst for knowledge and personal freedom became increasingly evident. Education, however, was not easily accessible to her. The societal barriers and gender discrimination prevalent in her community posed significant obstacles to her academic pursuits. Yet, with the unwavering support of her mother and the encouragement of local activists who recognised her potential, Noorjahan began to carve out a path for herself. These activists, driven by a vision of social justice and equality, played a crucial role in empowering her to challenge the status quo.

Emboldened by her experiences and the solidarity she found in progressive movements, Noorjahan’s journey took her beyond the borders of her village. She became an advocate for women’s rights, using her voice to speak out against the injustices faced by women in her community and beyond. Her activism not only transformed her own life but also inspired countless others to join the fight for equality and empowerment.

As she traveled the globe, Noorjahan encountered diverse cultures and perspectives, each enriching her understanding of the world and deepening her commitment to social change. Her experiences abroad further fueled her passion for education and advocacy, leading her to collaborate with international organisations dedicated to uplifting marginalised communities.

Noorjahan’s life has been marked by significant hardships, beginning with the anguish of Partition, followed by the loss of her husband when she was merely 18 and expecting a child. Additionally, she faced the relentless threat of cyclones that jeopardised her family’s home and means of survival. Despite these challenges, her bravery is evident throughout her memoir. She advocated for the rights of the Bangla language in East Pakistan, navigated the tumultuous period of Bangladesh’s Liberation War (1971), and entered into a marriage that transcends her family’s religious boundaries.

This poignant and compelling narrative encapsulates a profound journey of trauma, loss, resilience, and empowerment.

[1] Agunmukha means fire mouthed

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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Notes from Japan

Educating for Peace in Rwanda

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date November 14, 2024
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By Suzanne Kamata

In late September, I visited Rwanda with a professor of Naruto University of Education in Japan and two Japanese graduate students. We traveled from Kigali, the capital city, to the Kayonza District, a rural area, to learn about the 1994 Genocide against Tutsi which necessitated peace education in Rwanda. In one month, around a million Tutsis and their sympathisers were systematically and viciously slaughtered by members of the Hutu ethnic group following government directives. This “final solution” was enacted via machetes and spears, often by classmates, co-workers, and neighbors. Just about everyone in Rwanda was affected by the horror in some way. Our driver told us that his father, sister, and brother were murdered at that time. Our interpreter, Claude Mugabe, was also a genocide survivor. He had been eight years old at the time, and he said that he remembered everything.

The animosity between two ethnic groups may be traced to the colonial period, when Belgians favoured the Tutsi, who typically had tall, slender bodies, high foreheads, and narrow features, for prestigious positions and privileges. Periodic violence against the Tutsis began in the 1950s and continues to this day, but Rwandans have made great efforts to ensure that the events of 1994 never occur again. We learned that Rwandan citizens are no longer required to carry identity cards indicating their ethnicity.

We visited a center which is a part of the Peace Education Initiative Rwanda. The three pillars of their program are peacebuilding and reconciliation, youth empowerment, and social economic development. We first gathered in tent where some photos of the massacre were displayed. Some community members, including those who had been alive at the time of the genocide and high school students, were gathered to share their thoughts and experiences with us.

As birds sang and chickens squawked in the background, Mugabe explained some ways in which the people of his community have sought reconciliation, including sharing goats, building together, and working alongside one another. He emphasised that it’s important that everyone have their basic needs met. To this end, the community members fight against malnutrition, which can lead to diseases, through gardening vegetables and rearing animals such as goats and chickens, which provide milk and eggs.

Another important part of reconciliation, as we learned, is forgiveness. We heard moving –and often shocking – testimonies from both a victim and a perpetrator. We first heard from a woman who was a victim. She told us how she was harassed by her teachers after they learned that she was a Tutsi, and ultimately forced to drop out of school. She said that she spent some days and nights hiding in the bush. Her house was burned, and nothing remained. On April 9, she left her hiding place and sought refuge in the Catholic church. It was full, however, so she went to the cinema. On April 14, the Hutus attacked the church. Although the woman lost her sight, she said that she later received health insurance, and “Today we’re living in peace and harmony.”

Next, we heard from a man who was 30 years old, with a wife and two children, at the time of the genocide. He admitted that he had critical thinking ability, but he participated in the attack on the church, anyway, along with other civilians and members of the military. They were armed with machetes, guns, and grenades, and given thirty minutes to exterminate everyone in the church. They surrounded the church and opened fire, but they “succeeded” in killing only thirteen people the first day. He did not return the second day because his wife was sick. Later, he fled to Tanzania, but after being repatriated to Rwanda, he, like many others, was arrested and sent to prison. “I internalized what I did,” he said through the interpreter. He was filled with remorse. When he was released, he bought a cow for the victims, and asked for forgiveness. In the beginning, only 12 people were involved, but now almost 3,000 participate in peace education in the village.

In addition to these community activities, peace education is an important part of the school curriculum in Rwanda. As in Japan, where students go on field trips to Hiroshima and Nagasaki to learn about the atomic bombing of those cities, Rwandan students visit sites related to the genocide, such as churches which now serve as memorials to those who died. We visited two such memorials. In one, the blood-stained clothing of the murdered was stacked on the church pews, while their photos were displayed on the wall. There were glass cases full of skulls, some with bullet holes, or larger gashes caused by clubs or machetes, as well as coffins full of bones. Though graphic and disturbing, these exhibits gave us an understanding of this particular tragic event and of the horrors of war in general.

As I thought about the divisions among people in my own country, the United States, all of the hate-filled rhetoric spewing from the mouths of politicians, and the move to silence voices from outside the mainstream, I couldn’t help thinking that some of these measures might be applied there, as well. What if we truly acknowledged that past? What if we shared our bounty? What if we asked for forgiveness? For now, I will remember what I learned in Rwanda. I will cling fast to hope.

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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Tags Belgians, Genocide, Hiroshima, Hutu, Japan, Japanese, Kayonza District, Kigali, Michigan, Nagasaki, Naruto University, Peace Education Initiative Rwanda, Rwanda, Rwandan, Suzanne Kamata, Tanzania, Tutsi, United States

Notes from Japan

Sneaky Sneakers

By Suzanne Kamata

So there I was, jacket zipped, MP3 player charged and loaded, sneakers laced and tied. Just as I was about to go out the door to embark on my power walk, I realised that I’d left the keys on the table in the other room. No one else was in the house. What a bother!

I considered my options. One, I could go out and leave the house unlocked, but I didn’t want to do that. Two, I could try to crawl on my hands and knees to the table without letting my feet touch the floor. Three, I could take off my jacket, lay it down like a carpet, and step on that instead of the bare wooden floor. Four, I could untie, unlace, and step out of my shoes and, in my socks, go get the keys.

I’ve lived in Japan for over 20 years, so I know better than to wear shoes in the house. After all this time, I can’t bring myself to wear shoes indoors in the United States, either, though I was brought up treading on carpet while shod. Most of my footwear is of the slip-on variety—clogs, flip-flops, pumps, loafers—but I still prefer lace-up athletic shoes for exercise.

On this day, I managed to walk on my knees to the table, grab the keys, and get back to the entryway, all without letting my soles touch the floor.

Shortly after that, I was again standing in an entryway while visiting an American friend in Kamakura. My shoes were laced and tied. She had just pulled on her boots and zipped them when she discovered that she had forgotten something. I was prepared to commiserate with her about the nuisance of taking off one’s shoes when, to my surprise, she re-entered the house with her boots on, to retrieve the forgotten bag.

My jaw dropped. This friend had also lived in Japan for a very long time. “You go into your house with your shoes on?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Sometimes. It’s too much trouble to take them off.”

Perhaps this was common. Maybe all over Japan, people were secretly stepping onto the floors of their homes in spike-heeled sandals and hiking boots, and who knows what else!

Curious to know, I asked a Japanese friend—an older woman, with grown children—if she’d ever done such a thing.

“Well,” she said, leaning close, “sometimes in winter, when I’ve already got my boots on, I quickly step inside and hope no one’s watching.”

Again, my jaw dropped. “And what about your children?”

“If they did it, I would scold them,” she assured me. “We’re not supposed to wear shoes in the house.”

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

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Tags American, Japan, Japanese, Michigan, Notes from Japan, Suzanne Kamata, United States

Poetry

A Beach Novel with a Difference…

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date July 15, 2024
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In Conversation with Suzanne Kamata about Cinnamon Beach, published by Wyatt Mackenzie Publishing, and a brief introduction to her new novel.

Cinnamon beach by Suzanne Kamata seems to be ostensibly a normal romantic novel but there is an aspect that makes it unique. It glues all colours of humanity together. Almost all the families in her narrative are of mixed heritage or multiracial. She has stepped beyond the veneer of race and nationality to highlight that all humanity has the same needs— for love, acceptance and kindness, irrespective of colour and creed, a gentle reminder in a world that is moving towards polarisation in terms of constructs made by human laws.

Set against the backdrop of the Cinnamon Beach, the narrative shuttles through two countries that she has called home — Japan and USA. There are autobiographical elements woven into the narrative but perhaps, they halt in becoming lived experiences. The protagonist, upcoming writer, Olivia Hamada, an American married to a Japanese, has lost both her job and finds her marriage in doldrums when she visits her sister-in-law, Parisa. Parisa is a renowned fashion designer, daughter of an immigrant Indian and has lost her husband, Ted, Olivia’s elder brother. It is a poignant story with Olivia and her deaf daughter, Sophie, falling in love with a star, Devon, and his son, Dante respectively — both persons of colour. Devon’s ancestors were brought in from Africa. So how mixed are the races – Sophie is half Japanese-half American and Dante is part African-part American!

The narrative start simply and gains nuances as it progresses. There are comments and conversations that introduce twists and turns to explore attitudes and prejudices.

At a point Kamata tells us: “She’d heard, several years ago, of a revolt at a liberal college cafeteria in protest of its serving sushi. And there was that dust-up over a reality TV star using the name ‘kimono’ for her new line of shapewear. Perhaps she had been wrong to ever go to Japan in the first place. But she had done it and she had gone and written a collection of short stories heavily inspired by events in her real life, and now, here she was.” The bias against Japan that led to the destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki are hinted at conversationally – world events that conspired more than eighty years ago. Why do such biases still exist today when we have moved forward so much technologically?

When Olivia asks Devon why he never liked to talk race or indulge in activism, he tells her, “It’s just that I would rather build bridges than burn them.”

And he explains further, “Sometimes taking a stand on issues creates more division.”

Religious observances seem to be unboxed too with Buddhist, Hindu and Christian customs intermingled. All festivals become a celebration of love and acceptance. Her world is idyllic when it comes to interactions between the lead characters. Living in a city like Singapore, that does not seem an impossibility as many are of mixed origins.

One would hope that the whole world will eventually learn that all these differences are only the colours of the rainbow, as shown in Kamata’s novel. The novel ends on a note of hope — hope for a new beginning and for love and for a multiracial relationship.

Kamata’s style is fluid. The situations and events are so much a part of the lived reality that you can almost feel and see the characters come to life. Anyone can enjoy the novel, whether as a light read or to find the nuances that explore the need for the redefinition of societal norms. With her smooth and untroubled storytelling, Kamata leaves it to the reader to decide what they want to find in her storytelling. Nothing is coerced or made incomprehensible.

With a number of novels, short stories and poetry collections under her belt, as an award-winning storyteller, Kamata guides us through her world skilfully leaving us with a feeling of having made new friends and gained deeper insight into myriad colours of humanity. In this interview, she talks about her writing, her novel and beyond.

Tell us when you started writing? And how?

I have been writing since I was a child. I loved reading, so perhaps it was natural that I would start to make up my own stories. I got a lot of encouragement from my teachers and parents, which inspired me to continue.

How many novels have you written in all? And which has been your favourite?

I have written seven, including young adult novels and one for middle grade readers. At the moment, Cinnamon Beach is my favourite, maybe because it’s shiny and new.

You do stories for children too and poetry. Tell us a bit about those.

I subscribed to a magazine called Ladybug for my children when they were young. I decided to try writing a story and submitting it to the magazine, and it was accepted. Other stories, inspired by my children, followed. For example, my son requested a baseball story. My middle grade novel, Pop Flies, Robo-pets and Other Disasters is the result of that.

What is your favourite genre to read and to write?

I prefer to read and write realistic fiction. The age level doesn’t really matter. I personally read everything from picture books to middle grade novels to adult novels.

How did Cinnamon Beach come about? How long did it take you to write the novel?

This was my pandemic book. I wrote most of it within a year, which is unusual for me. It usually takes me about four years to finish something. But I had a lot of free time during the pandemic, when I was alone in my office, and I wrote. I was kind of obsessed with what was happening in the United States, where things were much, much worse than where I live in Japan. I actually made a visit to the US at the height of COVID-19 because my father broke his hip. So, my thoughts were turned toward South Carolina, where my parents and sister-in-law live. Also, I had been thinking about writing a multicultural beach novel for some time. I enjoy reading novels set at the beach, but they usually feature only white people. My family is very diverse, so when we go to the beach together there is a very interesting mix of cultures. I wanted the book to reflect that.

What kind of research went into it?

As I mention above, I did visit South Carolina during the pandemic. I also talked about it with my sister-in-law, who is Indian American. She gave me some ideas and commented on the final draft. Other than that, I went for a lot of walks on a nearby beach here in Japan.

In Cinnamon Beach, you have woven in autobiographical elements. Tell us how much of it is from your lived experiences.

A lot of it starts with something true and then leaps into “what if”? I did lose my brother, but not during the pandemic. He died in 2019, and I attended his funeral, but what if he had died a year later, when travel restrictions were in place? Also, I did have a work experience similar to Olivia’s. I brought my story to a newspaper, but I found a new job before the story was published, and I asked that it not appear in print after all. But what if I had allowed it to be published? My daughter is deaf and she uses an app to communicate with non-Japanese users. As far as I know, she doesn’t have a secret boyfriend, but what if she did?

You have written of nepotism in a Japanese University. Is that based on your experiences, facts or is it fiction?

Olivia’s experiences at a Japanese university are based on mine. People often get jobs through connections in Japan.

Having been married to a Japanese for a number of decades, what are the cultural differences? How do you bridge them? Is that woven into your narrative?

There are so many! There are a lot of little ones, such as my husband’s expectation for homemade soup with every meal (which I find troublesome to prepare), and my expectation for some sort of celebration on my birthday (which is rarely met). And there are many greater differences. For example, I feel that people don’t take gender harassment as seriously in Japan as they do in my native country, or that they are unaware of what it means. Also, Americans are very forthcoming about mental health issues, whereas it seems more secret and shameful to talk about them in Japan. I don’t know that my husband and I have necessarily bridged our cultural differences, but I have accepted that we think differently about many things. Olivia is divorced, so she and her Japanese husband did not bridge them very well.

Are mixed marriages more common in Japan or America? Please elaborate.

Mixed marriages are much more common in the United States than in Japan. Marriages between Japanese men and Western women are quite rare. According to Diane Nagatomo’s Identity, Gender, and Teaching English in Japan, in 2013, less than 2 percent of the 21,488 marriages registered in Japan between a Japanese and foreign national were between Japanese men and American women. I doubt that those numbers have changed much.

Do such families — with Western, Japanese, Indian and black, exist outside your fiction? Please elaborate.

Certainly. The ethnic mix of the family in Cinnamon Beach is based on that of my own family. As another example, Nikki Haley, the former governor of South Carolina, is an Indian American married to a white man. Their daughter married a black man. Many children of my Western friends who are married to Japanese have partners who are of other cultures (neither Japanese, nor Western). I think Third Culture Kids tend to be very open to people from other cultures.

What books, stories, music impact your writing and how?

In the case of Cinnamon Beach, having read beach novels by authors such as Elin Hilderbrand, Dorothea Benton Frank, Mary Alice Monroe, Patti Callahan Henry, Kristy Woodson Harvey and Sunny Hostin made me want to write my own beach novel. I don’t know that music influences my writing, because I write in silence, but it was fun to come up with a playlist of songs that related to the book.

Having said that, I love music and I have known people in bands. The music world is fascinating to me, and I have created musician or music-adjacent characters in other books as well. The character Devon was inspired by the Black American Country and Western singer Darius Rucker. I knew him a bit in college, because he and his then-band sometimes practiced in the house next to mine.

What are your future plans? What other books can we look forward to from you soon?

Next up in a short story collection, River of Dolls and Other Stories, which will be published in November by Penguin Random House SEA. And I also have an essay collection (mostly travel narratives) in the works. Will keep you posted!

Thank you for giving us a lovely novel and your time.

(The online interview has been conducted through emails and the review written by Mitali Chakravarty.)

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