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Essay

Kazi Nazrul Islam: Bringing the Ghazal Home

Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri explores how Nazrul transformed a Persian musical form into a distinctly Bengali expression of love, devotion and cultural coexistence

Nazrul (1899-1976) teaching Nazrul Sangeet. From Public Domain

The journey of the ghazal into Bengal is, in many ways, the story of India itself: a form travelling across languages, faiths, courts and cultures, losing something of itself at every crossing and acquiring something new in return. Born in Arabic poetry, refined in Persian, transformed in the Hindustani world and eventually absorbed into several Indian languages, the ghazal was never a form that remained untouched by the cultures through which it passed.

In Bengal, its most remarkable transformation came through Kazi Nazrul Islam.

Nazrul did not merely introduce the ghazal into Bengali. He made it feel as though it had always belonged there. That achievement becomes all the more remarkable when we remember that Bengali already possessed a rich and deeply individual musical-literary tradition. The nineteenth and early twentieth centuries had produced the great poet-composers who came to be remembered collectively as the Panchakabis[1]: Dwijendralal Roy, Rajanikanta Sen, Rabindranath Tagore, Atulprasad Sen and, the youngest of them, Nazrul. They wrote their own lyrics and generally composed their own melodies, creating a modern Bengali song tradition that combined literary sophistication with music. Unlike the privileged urban backgrounds of most of his predecessors, however, Nazrul came from poverty and rural Bengal. His childhood and youth exposed him to worlds that the emerging Bengali middle class often experienced as separate: Islamic learning, Persian literature, Hindu mythology, Vaishnava poetry, folk theatre and the songs of rural Bengal. This plurality was not an intellectual position Nazrul adopted later in life. It was the atmosphere in which his imagination was formed.

The ghazal itself had already travelled an extraordinary distance before reaching him. Its origins lay in Arabic poetry, but it acquired much of its classical identity in Persian literature. Persian poets such as Hafiz, Rumi and Saadi gave the form its characteristic world of desire, intoxication, separation, beauty and mystical longing. When the ghazal entered the Indian Subcontinent, it encountered local languages and traditions and changed again. Amir Khusrau and, later, Wali Daccani were among those who helped transform the Persian form into something increasingly Hindustani. In India, the ghazal acquired new vocabularies, new images and new musical possibilities.

At its simplest, the ghazal consists of a series of couplets, each capable of standing independently while being held together by a common metre, rhyme and refrain. Yet the formal structure is only half the story. The real unity of the ghazal is emotional. Its verses circle around longing, often without resolving it. The beloved may be a woman, a man, God, beauty itself, an absent homeland or an impossible ideal. In the Sufi imagination, earthly and divine love can become indistinguishable.

That ambiguity was perfectly suited to Nazrul.

Bengal had experimented with the form before him. Atulprasad Sen is generally credited with the first substantial Bengali experiments with the ghazal. But Nazrul took the experiment much further, turning it into a popular musical form. He did not approach the ghazal merely as a literary structure to be reproduced in another language. He understood that it had to be made to breathe in Bengali.

His preparation for this was unusually rich. He learnt Urdu from his uncle Bazle Kareem and encountered Persian more deeply during his years with the Bengal Regiment in Karachi, where he studied the language with a Punjabi maulavi. He read Omar Khayyam, Rumi and Hafiz, and the attraction was immediate. The Persian poets gave him a vocabulary of intoxication, rebellion, sensuality and mystical desire that seemed to correspond naturally with his own temperament. In the early 1920s, he translated and adapted Persian and Urdu material into Bengali. But it was towards the end of the decade, with greater maturity as both poet and composer, that he began creating original Bengali ghazals in earnest. These compositions were published with musical notation and eventually travelled through gramophone records and radio.

That technological development is important. The Bengali ghazal might have remained an interesting literary experiment had it been confined to printed pages. Gramophone and radio changed its destiny. Nazrul’s songs entered homes, tea shops, theatre halls and public gatherings. A form associated with the Persian and Urdu world could now be heard in Bengali by listeners who might never have encountered its literary ancestry. The ghazal became something to sing and listen to before it became something to analyse.

Nazrul’s great innovation was to make the Persian inheritance sound Bengali without stripping it of its Persian character. Listen to the vocabulary of his songs. Words such as ishq, dil, mahfil, gulshan, bulbuli and gulbahar enter the Bengali lyric naturally. They do not sit there like foreign ornaments. They become part of the emotional vocabulary of the song. The Persian garden begins to coexist with the Bengali landscape.

This is one of the most fascinating aspects of Nazrul’s ghazals. He could summon the rose garden of Persian poetry and, almost in the same breath, evoke Bengal’s rivers, spring winds, flowering trees and muddy pathways. The imported image does not erase the local one. They inhabit the same poem. Consider the rose and the nightingale, perhaps the most familiar pair in Persian and Sufi poetry. Nazrul gives them an intimacy that is unmistakably his:

Mohammad naam jopchhili bulbuli tui aage,
Tai kire tor konthe aaji emon modhur raage.
Ore golap niribili, bujhi Nobir kodom chhuye chhili,
Tai tar kodomer khoshbu aajo tor atore jaage.


*

O nightingale, surely you once whispered the name of Muhammad
Is that why such sweetness dwells within your song?
O rose, perhaps, in secret, you once touched the Prophet’s feet;
That is why, even today, the fragrance of his footsteps lingers in your attar.

The rose and nightingale are ancient Persian symbols. But Nazrul does something wonderfully intimate with them. The Prophet is not invoked through theological abstraction. His presence survives as fragrance, birdsong and touch. Devotion becomes sensory. The sacred enters the ordinary world through things one can smell and hear. This ability to make different traditions converse is at the heart of Nazrul’s art.

Nazrul was writing at a time when Bengal’s cultural life was being increasingly marked by communal anxieties. The Bengali Muslim community, despite its demographic importance, often found itself culturally marginalised within a literary establishment shaped substantially by the Hindu bhadralok[2]. Nazrul’s Bengali ghazals offered Bengali Muslims a literary and musical vocabulary drawn from their own Islamic and Persian inheritance while simultaneously keeping them within the larger Bengali cultural world. That is why his Persianised diction matters. It was not merely decorative exoticism. It helped create a cultural space in which Bengali Muslim listeners could hear themselves without having to abandon Bengali identity.

At the same time, Nazrul was introducing the Hindu listener to an Islamic world that Bengali literature had often treated as something outside the mainstream of its cultural imagination. His ghazals therefore worked in both directions. They gave Bengali Muslims a sense of cultural recognition while inviting Bengali Hindus into an unfamiliar but deeply embedded part of Bengal’s history.

The scholar Dr Pushpita Mitra identifies three broad tendencies in Nazrul’s Bengali ghazals, and this distinction helps us understand the extraordinary range of his achievement. In some compositions, he brought Urdu words and phrases directly into Bengali, creating an idiom that consciously mediated between the two languages. In a second group, he used Persian imagery – gulbahar, gulbagicha, bulbuli, gardens, flowers, seasons – to evoke the landscape of Persian poetry while allowing it to overlap with Bengali nature. In a later phase, his ghazals became less dependent on obviously Persian or North Indian vocabulary and forms and increasingly absorbed his own mature musical and lyrical personality.

One of the most delightful examples of the first tendency is a song that moves between Bengali and Hindustani with a playful sensuality:

Alga koro go khopar bandhan
Dil wahin mera phans gayi
Binod benir zareen fitay
andha ishq mera kas gayi.
Tomar kesher gandho kokhon
Lukaiye ashilo lobhi amar mon,
Behosh hokar gir pari haath mein,
Baaju-band mein bas gayi.


*

Undo the knot of your hair
My heart is caught there still.
In the golden ribbon of your braid,
My blind love has tightened its hold.
When did the fragrance of your hair
Slip secretly into my heart?
Before I knew it, drunk and helpless,
I fell into your hands
And made my home in your armlet.

What makes the song so charming is not simply its sensuality. It is the linguistic play. Bengali and Hindustani rub against each other, creating something that sounds at once theatrical, folkish and unmistakably Nazrul. The Persian vocabulary is not being displayed; it is being lived.

The second tendency in his ghazals is equally revealing, as Dr Mitra points out. Consider his evocation of spring:

Phul phaguner elo morshum,
Boney boney laaglo dol,
Kusum shokhin dokhino haaway
Chitto geeto-uttorol.

The poem begins in the Bengali spring – the season of phagun, flowers, southern winds and the stirring of the heart – but Persian imagery soon enters the frame:

Gulbaharer uttori kaar jauraalo toru-lotaay,
Muhu-muhu daakey kuhu, tandra-alosh daar khol.


*

Spring has come, the season of flowers,
And every grove is suddenly awake.
The southern breeze moves through the blossoms,
And the heart begins to sing and dance.
The rose-garden spills its colours
Over the branches and vines;
The cuckoo calls from somewhere within,
And sleep and languor open their doors.

The Persian garden has entered Bengal, but Bengal has not been Persianised. The two landscapes overlap. That is perhaps the most important thing Nazrul achieved with the ghazal: he did not translate one culture into another. He allowed them to meet.

And the emotion was never confined to romantic love. Nazrul could move from sensuality to devotion, from devotion to rebellion, from rebellion to loneliness. His ghazals contain lovers, mystics, intoxicated wanderers, flowers, nightingales and gods. Their beloved is often deliberately elusive. Is it a woman? God? Memory? Death? Desire itself? The uncertainty is part of the pleasure. This is where Nazrul’s Islamic inheritance meets the Bengali Vaishnava tradition of biraha, the spiritualized ache of separation. In both traditions, absence can become more powerful than presence. The beloved’s physical absence intensifies his or her presence within the imagination. Nazrul understood this instinctively. His songs rarely hurry towards resolution. Longing is allowed to remain longing.

Consider this:

Bagichay, bulbuli tui phul shakhate disne aji dol,
Ajo tar phul-kolider ghum tuteni, tandraate bilol.
Ajo hay rikto shakhay uttori bay jhurche nishi-din,
Asheni dakhine hawa, ghazal-gawa moumachi bibhol.
Kobe se phul-kumari ghomta chiri, ashbe bahire re,
Shishirer sparsha-sukhe bhangbe re ghum, rangbe re kapol.
Phaguner mukul-jaga dukul-bhanga ashbe fulel ban,
Kurider ostho-pute lutbe hashi, phutbe gale dol.
Kobi tui gandhe bhule dubli jole, kul peline ar,
Phule tor buk bhorechis, ajke jole bhar re aankhir kol.


*

In the garden, O bulbul, do not set the flowers swaying on their branches today;
The buds still sleep, their slumber has not yet been broken from their drowsy dreams.
Alas, even now, the empty branches tremble day and night in the northern wind;
The southern breeze has not yet arrived, nor the honeybees, intoxicated with the ghazal of flowers.
When will she come, the flower-maiden, tearing apart her veil and stepping outside?
When will the touch of dew awaken her from sleep and paint her cheeks with colour?
When spring comes, when buds awaken and the banks overflow, a flood of flowers will arrive;
Laughter will spill from the little buds’ lips, and dimples will blossom upon their cheeks.
O poet, bewildered by fragrance, you have plunged into the waters and can find no shore;
You have filled your heart with flowers, but today, fill the hollows of your eyes with tears.

This ghazal unfolds as a delicate allegory of waiting, awakening and loss. At first, its world seems entirely pastoral: the garden, the bulbul, sleeping buds, empty branches, dew, the southern breeze and intoxicated bees. Yet beneath these images lies a deeply human longing. Spring has not arrived; the flowers remain asleep, the branches shiver in the cold northern wind, and even the bees that will eventually turn the garden into music are absent.

The ‘flower-maiden’ becomes the central image of this anticipated awakening. Her emergence from behind her veil, her cheeks coloured by dew, and the laughter and dimples appearing on the buds transform nature into a living feminine presence. Spring is imagined not merely as a season but as a moment of emotional and sensual renewal.

The final couplet dramatically changes the mood. The poet, intoxicated by fragrance, has plunged into the waters and lost the shore. The flowers that once represented joy now coexist with tears. This movement from expectation to intoxication and finally to sorrow gives the ghazal its poignancy. The poem’s greatest beauty lies in this tension: spring promises fullness, yet the poet discovers that beauty and grief are inseparable. The garden blooms outside while the heart fills with tears within.

In another ghazal, the poet says:

Bosiya bijone keno eka mone
Paniya bharone cholo lo gori
Cholo jole cholo kande banatal
Dake chholchhol jol-lahori.
Diba chale jay bolaka-pakhay
Bihoger buke bihogi lukay.
Kende chokha-chakhi magiche biday
Barowa-r sure jhure banshori.
Ogo be-dordi o ranga paye
Mala hoye ke go gelo joraye.
Tobo sathe kobi porilo daye,
Paye rakhi tare na gole pori.


*

Sitting alone in solitude,
Why do you linger there by yourself?
Come, fair one, come to fetch the water;
Come, let us go to the water.
The forest floor weeps;
the rippling waves call out to us.
The day slips away on the wings of the cranes;
within the bird’s breast the female bird hides.
The chokha-chakhi, the loving pair, weeps and bids farewell;
To the plaintive strains of Barowa, the flute languishes.
O heartless one, at your red feet,
who has gone and entwined herself like a garland?
The poet, bound to you, is caught in a dilemma:
shall I place her at your feet, or wear her around my neck?

This lyric unfolds as a gradual movement from invitation to longing, and finally to surrender. Its opening image, a young woman sitting alone and being invited to fetch water, places desire within the familiar pastoral world of Bengali song. Water becomes both a literal destination and an emotional metaphor: ‘come to the water’ suggests movement from solitude towards intimacy.

The second stanza deepens the mood through nature. Day departing on the wings of the balaka, birds seeking one another, and the chokha-chakhi bidding farewell create an atmosphere of separation. The mention of Barowa and the languishing flute introduces the classical-romantic vocabulary of Indian music, where melody itself becomes an expression of yearning.

The final stanza transforms pastoral romance into personal devotion. The mysterious figure who ‘entwines’ herself around the beloved’s red feet as a garland evokes both surrender and erotic attachment. The poet’s dilemma, whether to place the garland at her feet or wear it, is deliberately paradoxical. Love has erased the distinction between worship and possession. What begins as a simple invitation to the water thus becomes a meditation on desire, separation, devotion and the inability to decide whether love is an act of surrender or an act of embrace.

His later work makes this even more poignant. The death of his young son, the illness of his wife Pramila and the devastating illness that eventually silenced Nazrul himself cast a shadow over the later part of his creative life. The rebellious energy never entirely disappeared, but the songs increasingly turned towards loss, memory, mortality and mystical yearning.

One such lyric begins:

Bhoriya poran shunitechi gaan,
aashibey aaji bondhu mor.
Shaupono makhiya shonar paakhay,
aakhaashe udhao chitto-chokor.


*

My heart is full; I listen for a song
Perhaps today my beloved will come.
Dreams are folded into golden wings,
And some restless bird of the heart flies away into the sky.


The poem then moves towards the riverbank, the muddy path, the approaching beloved and the drifting scent of the wind. Who is coming? Nazrul never tells us. That is precisely its power. The beloved may be a lover remembered, a divine presence, an apparition from the past, even death itself. The song does not close the door on any possibility. It leaves us waiting on that riverbank.

This late Nazrul is very different from the young ‘Bidrohi Kobi’, the Rebel Poet who thundered against empire, oppression and communal divisions. Yet the two poets are not really different. The same refusal to accept boundaries lies beneath both. The poet who would not accept the separation of Hindu and Muslim traditions would not accept the separation of love from devotion, the sensual from the spiritual, or beauty from sorrow.

This is also why his use of Hindu and Islamic imagery could be so radical without being merely provocative. Nazrul could write of Krishna, Shiva, Kali and Durga with the same intensity with which he invoked Islamic devotional imagery. His Hindu devotional songs, particularly his Shyamasangeet, became an important part of Bengal’s musical heritage. His ghazals, meanwhile, brought Persian and Islamic imagery into Bengali popular music. His artistic universe was not a collection of separate compartments; it was a single, restless landscape.

There were critics who found this troubling. Some conservative Muslims objected to his Hindu imagery; some Hindu critics were uncomfortable with his Persianised diction. Nazrul belonged fully to neither camp because he refused the premise on which both positions rested: that cultures preserve themselves by remaining apart. For him, Bengal had never been culturally pure. Its languages, music, metaphors and religious traditions had been meeting one another for centuries. The Bengali ghazal is perhaps the most beautiful evidence of that history.

What Nazrul finally created was not a Bengali imitation of an Urdu form. Nor was it Persian poetry dressed in Bengali clothes. It was something new: a musical-literary language in which Persian imagery, Arabic devotional vocabulary, Bengali lyricism, folk symbolism, Vaishnava emotionalism and Hindustani musical traditions could exist together without apologising for one another.

And this is where his importance extends beyond the history of the ghazal. Nazrul’s Bengali ghazals were part of a larger cultural intervention. In the Bengal of the 1920s and 1930s, when communal identities were hardening and the colonial political order was encouraging competing claims of belonging, he offered another possibility. A culture could be Muslim and Bengali. It could draw from Persia without ceasing to be Bengali. It could invoke Krishna and Muhammad without treating the two as mutually exclusive. It could be modern without severing itself from folk memory.

The political message was sometimes explicit in Nazrul’s journalism and poetry. In the ghazals it was often quieter. It resided in the very sound of the songs – in their vocabulary, their imagery, their musical forms and their refusal to remain inside a single cultural enclosure. The effect could be political without the song ever becoming a political slogan. Perhaps this is why Nazrul’s ghazals continue to feel so alive. Nearly a century later, his Bengali ghazals remain part of the musical lives of Bengal and Bangladesh. They continue to be sung, recorded and reinterpreted. Their survival is testimony not simply to the durability of Nazrul’s melodies but to the emotional generosity of the world he imagined.

A rose can belong to Persia and Bengal at the same time. A nightingale can sing the name of Muhammad in a Bengali song. A river boat can carry an Islamic prayer. A spring garden can be simultaneously gulbahar and Bengal. A lover can be human, divine or simply remembered. Nazrul understood that these were not contradictions. They were the truth of Bengal. And perhaps that is his greatest gift to the Bengali ghazal: he did not merely give Bengal a new musical form. He showed how a culture can absorb another culture without losing itself, and how, in the process, both cultures can become something larger than they were before. The ghazal arrived in Bengal as an inheritance from elsewhere. Nazrul brought it home.

[1] Panchakabis: Five poets

[2] Bhadralok: Gentlemen

(First published in https://shantanuraychaudhuri.com/2026/08/29/kazi-nazrul-islam-bringing-the-ghazal-home/)

Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri is a film buff, editor, publisher, film critic and writer. Books commissioned and edited by him have won the National Award for Best Book on Cinema twice and the inaugural MAMI (Mumbai Academy of Moving Images) Award for Best Writing on Cinema. In 2017, he was named Editor of the Year by the apex publishing body, Publishing Next. He has contributed to a number of magazines and websites like The Daily Eye, Cinemaazi, Film Companion, The Wire, Outlook, The Taj, and others. He is the author of two books: Whims – A Book of Poems (published by Writers Workshop) and Icons from Bollywood (published by Penguin/Puffin).

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

Categories
Excerpt

Travel Diaries of Women Pilgrims from Assam 

Title: Her Hajj Story: Travel Diaries of Women Pilgrims from Assam 

Author: Teresa Rehman

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

Trudging along the long, crammed alley, lit up by the radiant shops, I searched hard for Hajj memoirs written by women. The shopkeepers looked on vaguely, and were bewildered when I asked them for one. One of them told me that he had had copies of one such memoir but it was sold out now. I was dismayed; would there be second editions of such books, I wondered. And if so, who could these women who wrote them be? A shopkeeper, dressed in a fancy t-shirt and a crochet skull cap, tried to cheer me up. ‘We have a couple of books on Hajj written by men in case you are interested,’ he said ebulliently. I dismissed him with a smirk.

Having been unsuccessful in my first attempt, I changed my tactic. Instead of shops and publishers, I began raiding homes in the lanes of the old Muslim localities. I scavenged through forgotten trunks, dull, dreary cupboards, secret nooks and crannies. Some memoirs were lost forever, some unexpectedly tumbled out of curio collections of a few punctilious family members, who refused to junk old stuff. Sons and daughters revisited their mother’s memory through her Hajj memoir. For some, it was a matter of pride that somebody in their family had written a book, while some had hazy memories of a ragged lost book that they couldn’t seem to trace anywhere.

Begging, borrowing, (almost stealing), I managed to retrieve an exhaustive collection of women-written Hajj memoirs, some dating back to the time when flights were not available and one had to undertake the arduous journey by ship from Mumbai. Most houses only had a single copy, and the families begrudgingly gave me a photostat copy instead.

It is a unique tradition among Muslim women, especially in Assam and Meghalaya (then Assam) to write a memoir about their Hajj experience. Written mostly in their native language (Assamese; one was in Bangla) these memoirs were meant mostly for private circulation among family and friends. Most of these women painstakingly wrote in longhand, got it typeset manually and then sent to the printing presses. These were popularly dubbed as Hajj yatras or Hajj kathas, and instead of being dull notes, they were a series of insightful stories of a rather regimented travel through a strange and breathtaking land.

It was not that every memoir I came across was a literary masterpiece. While some were undoubtedly remarkably well-crafted, others read more like collections of rambling thoughts. The educational credentials of these women also ranged from middle school to a doctorate. Yet, whatever their background, these women were articulate enough to reflect on their experiences, gather their thoughts, and celebrate a collective human experience. For some, the pilgrimage had been life-changing, and they focused solely on the spiritual aspect of Hajj. Others explored and observed the people and places with a more touristy eye. Together, these memoirs add to the richness and diversity of literature written by women.

A prospective pilgrim, therefore, found these Hajj memoirs accessible, and an uncomplicated and easy-to-understand handbook, especially since they were written in their mother tongue. They also became spaces for women to speak their minds and challenge societal taboos, such as discussing menstruation during Hajj. Furthermore, the authors were able to carve out a sisterhood—an emotional connection and a supportive circle among family members, distant relatives, acquaintances and friends. Meant mostly for private circulation, the memoirs created a space within the spheres of domesticity and familiarity, without attracting public glare or media attention. For many families, they were a part of their heirloom.

The contents of these memoirs ranged across a variety of real-life concerns, practical advice, reflections and emotions. They were also a way for women to reclaim agency in storytelling and expand our understanding of the human experience. Their narratives were never entirely spiritual—at one had they spoke boldly of their anxiety about the Hajj rituals and whether they would be able to perform them correctly, on the other, there were more worldly and practical discussions about the unbearable desert heat, the fear of losing oneself or a dear one in the overwhelming crowd, menstruation, the lack of adequate toilets, luggage, food, sanitation, and hygiene. They also talked about souvenirs and memories they had carried back with them. Some of these books even had an ISBN number and a sprinkling of Arabic, Urdu and Persian words here and there, which is part of the daily usage of the community.

It is often seen that religious narratives are appropriated by men. Throughout history, male dominance has shaped religious institutions and social mores. Men often appropriate religious narratives by acting as the principal interpreters and gatekeepers of doctrine. However, women’s voices come through in these memoirs when they talk about taboo topics like purity and impurity during menstruation, while on the sacred journey. A woman is made to realise that she is physically not pure enough while she is menstruating. Lack of reprieve from certain perceived duties and existing rituals put the onus of shame on the woman. The memoirs become complete because they talk freely about these taboo topics as they were meant for private circulation among their female relatives. They were uninhibited about their experiences as they had an audience in mind. Instinctively, maybe they did not expect men to read them or use them as guidebooks.

(Extracted from Her Hajj Story: Travel Diaries of Women Pilgrims from Assam by Teresa Rehman. Published by Speaking Tiger Books, 2026.)

ABOUT THE BOOK

What does Hajj look like through the eyes of women?

In Her Hajj Story, award-winning journalist Teresa Rehman uncovers a remarkable yet forgotten tradition of Hajj memoirs written by women from Assam. A widow completes the pilgrimage after her husband dies and is buried in Medina. A single woman struggles to find a mehram, a suitable male family member as companion, before setting out. A poet stands on the deck of a ship, mesmerised by the moonlit Red Sea. A botanist searches for the deeper fragrance of faith beyond ritual. A social worker carries the prayers of an old-age home to the holy cities. Through eleven compelling narratives— translated from Assamese and Bengali, and interwoven with historical insight—these voices reveal journeys of faith, endurance, grief, wonder, and transformation.

Rich in cultural detail and deeply human, these forgotten memoirs emerge as far more than accounts of pilgrimage. They reveal an extraordinary literary tradition in which ordinary women became chroniclers of history, preserving family memories, practical wisdom and deeply personal encounters with the sacred. Blending travel writing, oral history, ethnography and literary recovery, Her Hajj Story is both a celebration of an overlooked tradition of Muslim women’s writing from Northeast India and a moving testament to faith, resilience and the enduring power of women’s voices.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Teresa Rehman is an award-winning journalist based in Northeast India. For years, she has brought the region’s diversity and distinct ethos to mainstream media through her work with India Today, The Telegraph, and Tehelka, before founding and editing Thumbprint Northeast Magazine. Her books include The Mothers of Manipur (Zubaan Books) and Bulletproof (Penguin Random House India).

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

Categories
The Throne

Earth Jasmine, Sky Jasmine

Translated by Isa Kamari from his own Malay novel

The Throne in Malay
Chapter 2
Earth jasmine, sky jasmine
String of jasmine encircles the heart
Jasmine poured with water from the hills
Jasmine sprinkled by a pinch of compost
Seven rivers, seven clouds
Rain pelts onto forlorn petals
Beauty is to the form, beauty to the eyes
Beauty is the hand that tends to the soil
Beauty is the fingers that caress the leaves
Beauty is the cut on the arms of the gardener
The scorching sun, the shade from the foliage
Bountiful is the soul of the tree that delivers
Witness to a life devoted to hard work
With laws of nature as the axis
Strong roots clench the earth
Shoots look up high to the sky
Feet stand firmly, the soul sings
Blossoms waft fragrant dreams
Earth jasmine, sky jasmine
Jasmine blooms in the early morning
Say your prayers, introduce yourself

“Can you relate your brother’s childhood?”

“What do you want to know, doctor?”

“Everything. Just tell me earnestly.”

I looked at the doctor’s face cynically. I knew his intentions. He was trying to trace my brother’s past to detect the crucial point at which he changed to what he has become at present.

The doctor smiled. Perhaps he can read what is in my heart. He nodded gently, his eyes were clear. He held my arm gently:

We lived in a barrack. There were ten doors at the front and ten more at the back. Each house had a living room and bedroom. The walls were of wooden planks. At the top of the wall a wire mesh was affixed to enable air to flow between the houses. It was not only air that was exchanged. All gossips and secrets of each family were also heard by neighbours. The ceiling was of asbestos sheets nailed to a wooden frame. The roof sheets were also of corrugated asbestos.

Just imagine there were eight of us living in a house that was only about thirty-five metres square. He was the fifth child of six children.

A row of small kitchens was located at the side of the barrack, with the common bath-house next to it. The common latrine was located near the municipal drain behind a grove of succulent banana shrubs. There were several poultry coops at the fringe of the barrack.

I still remembered the days when Mother took him and my other siblings to a plant nursery at Malcolm Road. I did not follow them as I was in the morning session at school. The plot of land was leased by the government to a Chinese towkay[1]. They went there very early in the morning to earn some money by picking jasmine blossoms. For each plastic packet of jasmine blossoms, they would receive ten cents. These packets were sold by the towkay to hawkers at Tekka Market for the consumption by mainly Indians, who seemed to have a penchant for it.

At about ten in the morning they walked home for about one kilometre. Altogether they would earn about two dollars. They would go there almost every day except over the weekends or when it rained heavilu. They feared lightning strikes. My siblings would then go to school in the afternoon. I know they were rather bored with the routine. I felt they were disappointed because they could not play with their kampong[2] friends in the morning.

But I knew that it was one of the many ways that Mother employed to earn additional income to support the family. Upon returning home, Mother would prepare meals for her children. From the money earned picking jasmine blossoms, all of us had some pocket money for school.

Father worked as a gardener in a condominium at Pandan Gardens. He cycled to work and returned home after dusk. It was only at night that we gathered as a family. Most of us were rather exhausted by then.

But everything changed when our family moved to a flat at Ang Mo Kio. From his own savings Father paid seventeen thousand dollars in cash for the flat. We were delightfully surprised. All along he had been very frugal and saved money for the well-being of the family. We moved to a more comfortable home. However, it posed challenges which were just as grave and testing to our souls.

(An earlier version was published in 2021 by Kitaab International)

[1] boss

[2] Traditional hamlet or village

About the Novel: The Throne is an unflinching exploration of schizophrenia set against the backdrop of modern Singapore. At once realistic and allegorical, it charts a man’s descent into alienation from his turbulent youth to his fractured adulthood. Blurring the boundaries between poetry and prose, the narrative becomes both intimate confession and universal parable.

More than a story of illness, The Throne meditates on the fragile yet fertile nexus of madness, creativity, and spirituality. Within this tension lies the possibility of healing—a reconciliation born of suffering, sacrifice, and an enduring search for meaning.

Click here to access Chapter 1 of The Throne.

Isa Kamari has written 12 novels, 3 collections of poetry, a collection of short stories, a book of essays on Singapore Malay poetry, a collection of theatre scripts and lyrics of 3 music albums, all in Malay. His novels have been translated into English, Turkish, Urdu, Arabic, Indonesian, Jawi, Russian, French, Spanish, Korean, Azerbaijan and Mandarin. Several of his essays and selected poems have been translated into English. Isa was conferred the S.E.A Write Award from Thailand (2006), the Singapore Cultural Medallion (2007), the Anugerah Tun Seri Lanang (2009) from the Singapore Malay Language Council, and the Mastera Literary Award (2018) from Brunei Darussalam.

He obtained a BArch (Hons) from the National University of Singapore in 1989, an MPhil (Malay Letters) from Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia in 2008 and is currently pursuing a PhD programme at the Academy of Islamic Studies, Univeristi Malaya. His area of research is on the problem of alienation and the practice of firasat (spiritual intuition) in selected Singapore Malay novels.

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

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Review

Memoirs of Romila Thapar

Book Review by Meenakshi Malhotra

Title: Just Being: A Memoir

Author: Romila Thapar

Publisher: Seagull Books

The title of Romila Thapar’s memoirs is deceptive and deceptively simple. It is not ‘just being’ but that being Romila Thapar is also a story of becoming, of mapping out borders and boundaries of what a woman from a liberal, progressive and well to do family could achieve in newly independent India. Her achievements are many and varied and her persona redoubtable. There is tremendous breadth of scholarship and Thapar’s is undoubtedly a remarkable journey which details the trajectory of her growing up  years-family, background, physical and social location.   

As a historian, Thapar is acutely aware and interested in the way memory works and it is this abiding interest which is perhaps reflected in her use of the following lines: “Times present and time past/Are both perhaps present in time future/And time future contained in time past”, lines from “Four Quartets” by TS Eliot.

This encapsulation of time reminds us of a common  feature of autobiography — memoirs and autobiographies measure the gap between two temporal loci — the time of a past event and the time of its narration. In this case, the beginning of the story goes back nine decades. Prof Thapar regales us with stories of growing up in pre-Independence India. Born in Lucknow, she grew up in the North Western Frontier Provinces, moving from place to place as her father was a doctor in the Army.

In a way, the seeds of autonomy and independent thinking were sown very early in her life in myriad ways. She was influenced by her maternal grandmother and her mother. The latter  was a graduate  in the India of the 1920s, creditable for a woman  since it was at a time when women’s education received mixed responses. She was competent in reading and writing three languages — Hindi, Urdu and English. Thapar narrates that “my maternal grandmother had insisted on two conditions before the marriage: that my mother never be asked to observe purdah– take the veil — when there were men around: and that she never be asked to cook meals for the family. These conditions were met.”

One finds it surprising even from the vantage point of the present time where entrenched patriarchal attitudes completely normalise the double burden carried by women and mythify cooking not only as part of women’s household duties and responsibilities, but as an act of maternal care and a labour of love. Many such instances stand out which provide a glimpse of a progressive, educated and liberal family, among whom are to be found many intellectuals who played their role in public life.

Underlying this memoir is a certain imagination of India. Thapar stands in the vanguard of  those invoking, protecting and saving the idea of an India which is secular, multilingual, diverse and heterogenous. Thapar’s narrative warns us time and again of the dangers of a single narrative , a single story. Thus, she calls out the crises of democracy both during the Emergency[1] and in the present time. Is the failure of democracy attributable to the pervasive atmosphere of fear where citizens were/are cowed into silence? Or is it the failure of the education system within capitalism which has oriented individuals to fulfilling privatised desires rather than their duties as citizens? Or is it a comment on our civilisational failure that we have been reduced to acting as echo chambers for ruling elites?   

In Just Being, historian par excellence Romila Thapar reflects on a rich, variegated, path-breaking life ― along with the people, relationships, ideas and journeys that made her who she is. In this compelling memoir, she invites us into her illustrious world ― a rich, testimony from a scholar who has profoundly shaped and moulded our understanding of India’s past and present. From her childhood growing up in British India, through her years of education in London, her extensive travels to archaeological sites across Asia and beyond, and her trailblazing role in shaping the Centre for Historical Studies at Jawaharlal Nehru University, Thapar reflects on a life lived in the service of education and research. Written over the past few years, Just Being is ample proof of Thapar’s ability to view herself within the larger flow of history, and to give a splendid account of it with a scholar’s depth, a storyteller’s sensitivity and an artist’s luminosity. It reveals not only an extraordinary, boundary-defying life but courage, integrity and a profound conviction that understanding our past in the light of undeniable evidence is essential to understanding the present and shaping a more thoughtful future.

She completed her doctorate in 1958 and was offered a temporary job at School of Oriental and African Studies to teach a course in ancient history in London. Thapar’s father had set aside funds – it could be used for either marriage or education. She chose the latter and proceeded to educate herself in myriad ways. From attending the lectures of Eric Hobsbawm on European political thought, reading Ismat Chughtai, Simone de Beauvoir, enrolling herself in evening courses on Chinese art (she did Chinese landscape painting) and archaeology, learning italic calligraphy, playing table tennis with monks, holding the stepladder for friends in libraries while the other reached for books in upper shelves, her discovery of Africa, to making posters and going for marches at Trafalgar Square and Hyde Park, hers is a rich and variegated life.

One is enthralled by her narratives of the people she met, the places she visited, illumined by the rays of her razor-sharp wit and comprehensive intelligence. What also dazzles is her knowledge of jazz, her cosmopolitanism and her capacity to engage with politics and culture, art and music. She narrates about  her experiences in both white and coloured jazz bars, among musicians across the racial divide, in the immediate aftermath of Martin Luther King’s assassination in January 1968. She writes about her meeting with the writer Nelson Algren, who had previously shared an intense relationship with Simone Beauvoir and featured in her  work, both fictional and non-fictional.  Undoubtedly and confidently cosmopolitan, she is able to make a place for herself and earn respect in widely varying contexts, including many international fora and platforms.

Professor Thapar’s feistiness is evident throughout this absorbing memoir. So is her impeccable scholarship. In the chapters on “History Rocks” and “Textbooks in the Fray,” she calls out the ideologically motivated peddlers of popular histories prevalent on Whatsapp groups and contrasts them with professional historians and historiographers. She is a stickler for honing the historian’s craft through the discipline of method and process and sharply critiques the ideologically motivated peddling of history at the cost of professionalism. Two points are made very clearly by her: first that history is and should be based on scientific evidence and there should be no mixing up or conflation of mythology and history. “Mythology is the other kind of literature that is often quoted in public discussion and confused with history.’’ Another distinction is made with equal precision: following a Weberian or Marxist methodology is not necessarily a sign of ideological persuasion as much as a methodological preference for a certain rational process of  historical analysis.

Thapar is one of the world’s foremost authorities on ancient Indian history, celebrated for transforming how ancient Indian history is studied. Rather than treating history as a sequence of kings and battles, her structural, sociological, and text-critical approach shifts focus on social formations, economic shifts, and the evolution of cultural identities. Her definitive research has fundamentally challenged both nineteenth-century colonial stereotypes and reductive nationalist narratives.

Her contribution to Indian history is immeasurable.She meticulously dismantled the Eurocentric colonial claim that ancient Indians lacked a “sense of history”. In works like The Past Before Us, she showed how early Indian society embedded its historical memory through distinct traditions — such as the Itihasa-Purana literature, Buddhist/Jain monastic chronicles, and royal biographies (charitas).

Her chapter “Textbooks in the Fray” traces the ideological warfare being waged over school textbooks, some of which she had written along with other well-known historians. Her interrogation and contestation of monolithic and singular identities pave the way for a  layered reading of history.

Thapar argues that modern conceptions of a singular, monolithic “Hindu” or “Muslim” community are modern constructs. Her study of the historical narratives surrounding the Somnath Temple in Dwarka illustrated how a single historical event was interpreted in profoundly different, multifaceted ways by varying social groups over centuries. Similarly, her study of Sakuntala’s contrasting depictions in the famous Indian epic  Mahabharata (around 4th century BC) and  Kalidas’s play “Abhijnanashakuntalam” (4th-5th century AD) point out different conceptualisations and representation of women from a chronological perspective. 

Prof Romila Thapar’s skills as a memoirist are perhaps comparable to her skill as a historian. Her endeavours have both decolonised history as well as given the discipline the status of a social science. The book gives an insight into her life, her beliefs and reflects on our times with an unbiased perspective of an adroit historian. It is a prized and rare read.

[1] 1975-77: Period of curtailment of civil liberties in India due to internal unrest.

Meenakshi Malhotra is Professor of English Literature at Hansraj College, University of Delhi, and has been involved in teaching and curriculum development in several universities. She has edited two books on Women and Lifewriting, Representing the Self and Claiming the I, in addition  to numerous published articles on gender, literature and feminist theory.  Her most recent publication is The Gendered Body: Negotiation, Resistance, Struggle.

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Review

Homecoming

Book Review by Somdatta Mandal

Title: Homecoming

Author: Omair Ahmad

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

 From the title of this novella, Homecoming, one can guess that a particular place becomes the focal point in the unravelling of the story, and that place is none other than Lucknow, seeping in past history, a promise of grace that the city was famed for, and a unique brand of Nawabi culture. The novel opens with a ‘Prologue’ where we are told that Hassan’s wife Samina has decided to leave Lucknow after she discovered that a small monument with a grave had been destroyed and the calligraphy over it had been vandalised. From that vantage point, Omair Ahmad, an eminent novelist, tactfully gives us the entire history through rendition given by three characters – Hassan, Ahmed Sahib and Sam or Samina narrate the story in four independent segments.

 Hassan originally belonged to a Reddy family in Hyderabad and was of mixed parentage with a father steeped in communist ideology. His father married a Muslim lady from Patna. After several years, when they quarreled and fell apart, Hassan, a dentist by profession, left for Lucknow in search of a stable job. That became his home for almost twenty-five years. After years of trying to belong to Lucknow, once a city of poetry and grace where he had hoped to find something of the father he had lost, Hassan meets a kindred spirit—Ahmed sahib, an elderly man of quiet warmth and dignity, although diminished in circumstance. Unable to pay his professional fees, Ahmed sahib accepts Hassan’s proposal to show him around the city of Lucknow with the hope that it would become his home and gives him the gift of unspoken friendship. He believed that the city was too close to him. Sometimes, he thought, everything had changed, and sometimes he thought nothing had. In the company of this man, the city opened itself to him, parting ever so slightly, slowly making him its own in a way he had not felt in all the years he had lived there.

Ahmed sahib himself was an abandoned son, had no siblings, no wife or child, but was still connected to a wider family. It was through his connections with an extended family that the novelist depicts the lifestyle and stories of old Lucknow with its begums, kothas, tawaifs, courtesans, old havelis[1], music being practiced by so many great artists, intricacies of inheritance etc.  

The third and the most significant protagonist is Sam or Samina, who was born in Lucknow, though she didn’t know that, and as an orphan went to live and grow up in London with her aunt and uncle. In college she fell in love with Urdu calligraphy and the Lucknawi style, and she managed to receive a fellowship from the Royal Historical Society to go to Lucknow to study calligraphy on the tombs of the noblewomen there.

Her aunt used to receive a letter once every six months from Badinani in Lucknow, from a great aunt called Begum Waheed, who briefed regularly about the myriad people she still thought of as her family, even if she hadn’t met most of them. At first Sam was afraid because she felt she was entering a world where everybody was an aunt or uncle, or a great-aunt or great-uncle. But gradually she becomes slightly more stable.  

Hassan and Samina meet and gradually fall in love with the machinations of Ahmed sahib. When Ahmed sahib dies, the two of them felt orphaned once more. Hassan concludes his narrative by telling us that he was no longer the man he had been before he met Ahmed sahib, before he learned of all he was to so many people. It had taken a year after his death for him and Samina to discover each other, and when she offered him her name, he knew he could never let her go. The concluding lines of the novella are striking:

I will let Samina rescue me from Lucknow, as her parents were once rescued by exile, and go haunt another land. I think Ahmed sahib would forgive me, I think he would even approve.”

Spare, nostalgic and moving, Omair Ahmad’s new novella is a meditation on love, lost and gained, dwelling on ideas of family, home and belonging. A wonderful read and the novelist should be congratulated for it.

[1] Kothas– brothels; Tawaifs– courtesans; Havelis– old palatial houses

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

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Categories
The Throne

Journey to the ‘Palace’

Translated from his own Malay novel by Isa Kamari

Chapter 1

I bow to you
King

I bear the torment of your sadness
In the embrace of my sleep
May it transform into
Glad tidings
For the days of your people
This exploration is
To find your throne
Which has disappeared
From our hearts

For my love to you
King

It was undeniable that he acted like a king. All his commands were to be obeyed, although he never asked for it directly, he hurt others and disrupted the peace in our family. He knew how to toy around with the opinions and feelings of others. He was not stupid, but smart and cunning.

And here I was bowing to him again. This was not the first time. I had come to pay homage to him on numerous occasions. That day was no different.

I waited for the van at Hougang interchange. It would be sent by the government to take guests to the ‘palace’, just as in the past horse carriages were sent to welcome dignitaries. But I was not of any importance — just an ordinary person with a little heart.

The van arrived at 1pm. Several commuters alighted. Almost all of them look depressed. A few smiled or smirked and waved their hands without any perceptible reason. I realised they resided at the ‘palace’ and had been given permission to return home or wander for a prescribed period. Clothed in dark blue shorts and T-shirts, they could take care of themselves but were still under close supervision.

I boarded the van and sat in the back row. Others, including two maids in the ‘palace’ uniform, boarded it too. All the passengers looked pensive. I began to think that the ‘palace’ had the ability to spread an air of melancholy as had been rumoured. I shivered and began to feel restless and out of sorts.

The van moved and turned right at the traffic junction, then turned right again and passed by a polyclinic and stadium next to a large canal. During the journey through the housing estate, I chanced upon the realisation that moderation in hopes and actions could be the key to a stable and peaceful life. Perhaps.

From far, I saw the ‘palace’ complex situated on a knoll covered in greenery. There was no ornamental gate at the entrance, but the complex looked neat and tidy — surely as a result of efficient operation and maintenance.

The van climbed the slope, turned left and then right twice before arriving at the main lobby of the institute of mental health with the corporate name of Buangkok Green Medical Park, which is the ‘palace’ for patients with mental disorder. It was called the infamous Woodbridge hospital before.

I stood still for a moment after I got off from the van. My eyes scanned the surroundings. Several inhabitants and visitors roamed freely in the concourse. I saw a brown marble statue with yellow spots beside a spiral staircase. It depicted a bent figure that supported another firmly and earnestly.

I was uncertain whether I could be like the statue for I felt really tired attending to his endless whims and fancies. I do not know when he could take care of himself sufficiently and with ease. There were always problems that emerged in his life. If these were limited to him, perhaps it would not matter. But it was not uncommon that the predicaments he faced dragged the entire family into turmoil. Undoubtedly, he acted like a cruel king who tortured us although he may not have realised it himself.

There were several stalls at the side of the lobby selling handicrafts of the residents of this ‘palace’. The institution attempted to paint a picture that there is still hope for them to return to normal life. I smiled cynically. What could be sold to reach that state, I wondered?

I was almost certain that it’s just an empty wish, specifically for the king who I am seeking audience with. Honestly, I was beginning to lose hope. I was there to fulfil a moral duty towards a person who shares our parents’ blood. Blood is thicker than water, they say. But if it is sullied blood or water keeps on flowing, I would have to divert it so as not to destroy the peace and harmony of our lives. But it has not reached that critical state yet. We are still praying.

I reached the lobby of block 4 after walking through several meandering walkways. I took the lift to the third storey of the palace. I was not allowed to enter the visiting hall after I registered myself with the palace guard at the counter. They were no gongs, drums and flutes to welcome me. There were no performances. I was shocked by the new experience.

I was confused and nervous haunted by the wild cries, wailing and chanting from a group of inhabitants in the adjoining room. They were prancing and swaying their bodies without care. Were they zombies, clowns or buskers who are having fun?

God forgive me. My chest palpitated heavily. I took a deep breath. I did not know what to expect next. I left it to the one and only King.

(An earlier version was published in 2021 by Kitaab International)

Isa Kamari has written 12 novels, 3 collections of poetry, a collection of short stories, a book of essays on Singapore Malay poetry, a collection of theatre scripts and lyrics of 3 music albums, all in Malay. His novels have been translated into English, Turkish, Urdu, Arabic, Indonesian, Jawi, Russian, French, Spanish, Korean, Azerbaijan and Mandarin. Several of his essays and selected poems have been translated into English. Isa was conferred the S.E.A Write Award from Thailand (2006), the Singapore Cultural Medallion (2007), the Anugerah Tun Seri Lanang (2009) from the Singapore Malay Language Council, and the Mastera Literary Award (2018) from Brunei Darussalam.

He obtained a BArch (Hons) from the National University of Singapore in 1989, an MPhil (Malay Letters) from Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia in 2008 and is currently pursuing a PhD programme at the Academy of Islamic Studies, Univeristi Malaya. His area of research is on the problem of alienation and the practice of firasat (spiritual intuition) in selected Singapore Malay novels.

About the Novel: The Throne is an unflinching exploration of schizophrenia set against the backdrop of modern Singapore. At once realistic and allegorical, it charts a man’s descent into alienation from his turbulent youth to his fractured adulthood. Blurring the boundaries between poetry and prose, the narrative becomes both intimate confession and universal parable.

More than a story of illness, The Throne meditates on the fragile yet fertile nexus of madness, creativity, and spirituality. Within this tension lies the possibility of healing—a reconciliation born of suffering, sacrifice, and an enduring search for meaning.

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

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

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

Categories
Poetry

Poems by Akil Contractor

From Public Domain
THE FIRST EXHALATION – MUMBAI RAIN 

The concrete cracks open,
releasing a breath held captive since March.
It is the smell of survival—
baked earth meeting the first dark arrow of water.

No warning sirens sound,
just the sudden, heavy drumming on corrugated tin roofs,
the sky bruising into shades of slate and indigo
over the Arabian Sea.

At Marine Drive, the tetra-pods break the spray,
blurring the boundary between ocean and air.
The local trains click-clack through a new, silver world,
tracks slicked with the grease of a long summer.

Nobody runs for cover.
Instead, umbrellas remain folded like sleeping birds.
Faces turn upward,
letting the cool torrent wash away the salt of sweat,
the grime of the local,
the memory of the heatwaves.

A city of twenty million stops,
just for a heartbeat,
to listen to the rhythm of its own washing clean.


CONVERSATIONS WITH MY SHADOW

You are the only one who walks at my exact pace,
stretching out across the concrete,
mimicking my posture but keeping your secrets.
We walk in a synchronised silence,
two versions of the same tired anatomy
negotiating with the afternoon sun.

"Why do you stay so quiet?" I ask.
But you only lengthen,
pulling yourself toward the edges of the walls,
as if trying to escape the heavy frame
of the body that anchors you to the ground.
You are my most faithful witness,
yet you refuse to testify.

When the light dies, you dissolve first,
leaving me alone in the dark room
to wonder which of us is the real entity
and which of us is just the displacement of light.
You have no voice, no friction,
just a quiet, stretching mimicry
that reminds me I am never entirely alone,
even when I am completely forgotten.


WAITING FOR A GHOST

The ordinary world is too well-mapped,
trapped in the flat geometry of the routine,
where every hour arrives exactly on schedule,
devoid of friction, stripped of mystery.
We scrub the static from our television screens
and pave over the wild, irregular earth,
until the mind begins to starve for the impossible—
the sudden, terrifying tilt of the axis.

So I sit in the drafty dark of the attic,
listening to the house settle into its bones,
actively inviting a presence I cannot explain.
I do not crave the safety of a clean answer;
I want the cold draft that defies the thermometer,
the floorboard that creaks without a footstep,
the sudden, rogue drop in atmospheric pressure
that proves the veil is thinner than we think.

To wait for a ghost is to reject the sterile grid,
demanding a life that leaks beyond the margins.
We need the shock of the unverified frequency,
the beautiful distortion of a world interrupted,
to remind us that we are more than biological clocks
ticking down in empty rooms—
we are participants in a dark, magnificent theatre
longing for the curtain to rip in two.


HAVE WE REALLY SCRAPED THE SKIES?

We built them high to pierce the blue,
a cold, reflective, glass array,
to show the clouds what we could do,
and scrape the boring sky away.

We poured the aggregate and steel
to give our pride a vertical spine,
and made the old horizon kneel
before a corporate boundary line.

But look up at the ninety-fourth:
a broker spills his lukewarm tea,
and tracks the market going north,
while suffocating in the breeze.

The smog is thick, the air is dead,
we trapped the wind inside a shaft;
we bought a penthouse overhead
but lost the sky to overdraft.

We haven't touched a single star,
nor made the heavy cosmos blink;
we only built a higher bar
to sit inside the dark and drink.

The skyscrapers are standing tall,
a monument of concrete grey,
but we just built a thicker wall
to keep the actual sky away.

Akil Contractor is a prominent Indian poet based in Mumbai. He was one of the founding members of Mumbai’s historic Poetry Circle in 1986.  Contractor writes across diverse linguistic traditions; his published English titles include After Kalinga and Other Poems (1986), Spirit Song (1986), and Rhyming Verses (2023). Under the pen name Talabgaar, he has also authored two celebrated volumes of Urdu Shayari. His latest English manuscript is Going Nowhere to a Place.

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Categories
Excerpt

The Sunday Book Bazaar at Daryaganj

Title: The Sunday Book Bazaar: Daryaganj and the Making of a Reading Public in Delhi 

Author: Kanupriya Dhingra

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

PROLOGUE

“Faiz Nahar Jaari Hai”

It is six in the morning in Old Delhi. A footpath that bends into an L has already begun its weekly transformation. A bazaar assembles near Delhi Gate, out of almost nothing. Cardboard and iron boxes arrive—carried, wheeled, hauled from nearby godowns in auto-rickshaws—and are set down along the footpath with the precision of long habit. Tambu and tarred canvas sheets follow, spread across the designated six-by-four-foot patches of ground that each seller has claimed, in practice if not always in law, over years and sometimes decades of Sunday repetition. Books emerge: stacked, sorted, and arranged by some private logic visible only to those who have done this a thousand times before. By the time the first chai of the morning arrives at the stall, carried in a small paper cup from the nearby chai-wallah, the bazaar has already begun to announce itself. By nine, it is a different place entirely.

This is Daryaganj Sunday Patri Kitab Bazaar: a bazaar of books, and only books. And this—this weekly conjuring, this seemingly serendipitous Sunday ritual—is what this book is about.

Every Sunday morning, the same stretch of pavement sheds its weekday skin. By mid-morning, the pavement fills entirely. Pedestrians who had no intention of stopping find themselves stopped by a spine, a title, a cover half-remembered from childhood. A student crouches over a pile of guidebooks, cross-checking prices on her phone. Two men argue cheerfully over a pulp fiction title. A child drags her father toward a stack of comics. The sellers watch patiently. They know that browsing is not wasting time. It is, in fact, the whole point.

What makes this bazaar remarkable is not only what it sells but what it refuses to be. It has no fixed address in the way a bookshop does, no permanent threshold, no air-conditioning, no MRP sticker that goes unchallenged. Every week, it must be built from scratch, for the crowd that somehow always finds its way back. There is nothing accidental about this. Daryaganj Sunday Patri Kitab Bazaar has survived municipal raids, court orders, evictions, relocations, and sixty years of official indifference. It has outlasted the shops behind it, the cinema halls that frame it, and every prediction of its disappearance. It keeps returning, as things in Delhi tend to do, in a slightly different form but with the same insistence.

In the mid-fourteenth century, sixteen years before he became the Sultan of Delhi, Firoz Shah Tughlaq undertook a grand endeavour: the construction of the Faiz Nahar, a seventy-five-mile canal created with the noble intention of bringing welfare to the people. Over time, the canal evolved under the watchful eye of Shah Jahan, stretching further and transforming the landscape around it. Its banks were adorned with lush neem and peepul trees; its waters flowed through the heart of Chandni Chowk, with one branch entering the majestic Red Fort as part of the Nahar-e-Bahisht. The other arm, known as Nahar Saadat Khan, meandered through the bustling streets of Daryaganj before merging with Jamuna, the river Yamuna. Along this vibrant waterway, a lively array of shops flourished, from jewellers and fruit sellers to sweet makers and fabric merchants, creating a corridor of commerce and conversation.

With time, however, the canal fell into disrepair. Hope was rekindled in 1820, when Sir David Ochterlony initiated its restoration. Poet Shah Nasir immortalised the event in verse, celebrating Ochterlony—affectionately referred to as ‘Looni Akhtar’—and the canal’s revival. For the people of Delhi, the return of the Faiz Nahar was more than an engineering triumph; it restored an old rhythm, reaffirming the city’s enduring bond with its waterways.

In the enchanting tales of Sangin Beg’s Sair-ul-Manazil, we encounter vivid scenes of Shahjahanabad and its many moods. His walks lead him to the joyous sight of the Faiz Nahar, inspiring the delightful refrain, ‘Faiz nahar jaari hai’. Faiz canal persists.

Centuries later, in modern Delhi, the spirit of the Faiz Nahar continues—not through water, but through the steady, determined passage of books that animates the streets of Daryaganj every Sunday.

Delhi endures by outgrowing versions of itself. What disappears returns in altered form, what is uprooted finds another ground, and what seems final rarely is. Here, destruction is never quite the end, and reconstruction never a clean beginning. In this ongoing conversation between erasure and perseverance, Old Delhi’s Sunday Book Bazaar has carved out its own fragile space. Its history is folded into the city’s larger habit of rebuilding what has been displaced. Daryaganj Sunday Book Market is not an exception to Delhi’s rhythms but a continuation of them—a marketplace that survives by starting over every Sunday.

My own journey into this parallel world began out of necessity and slowly transformed into something else entirely. I arrived as a researcher and became an accidental shauqeen buyer, lingering over pavement piles, returning week after week, slowly forming bonds with sellers who had long mastered the art of reading their readers. Through these chaotic streets and animated exchanges, I discovered the heart of Delhi’s readership. In their company, I began to understand how this city continues to breathe through its stories, how the joy of encountering books persists, even in the most uncertain times.

Faiz Nahar is gone. But every Sunday in Daryaganj, something of it still persists.

Extracted from The Sunday Book Bazaar: Daryaganj and the Making of a Reading Public in Delhi by Kanupriya Dhingra. Published by Speaking Tiger Books.

About the Book

Every Sunday, in the heart of Old Delhi, a footpath became a bookshop.

For decades, the Daryaganj Sunday Book Bazaar drew students, collectors, families, tourists and lifelong shauqeen to its pavement piles: textbooks, comics, rare editions, pirated bestsellers, forgotten magazines, discarded libraries, and books that seemed to find their readers by accident. Built by migrant booksellers, sustained by bargain-hunters and bibliophiles, and shaped by the rhythms of the street, the bazaar became one of Delhi’s most beloved cultural institutions.

In The Sunday Book Bazaar, Kanupriya Dhingra traces the life of this remarkable market—from its roots in the book cultures of Shahjahanabad and Daryaganj to its rise as a second-hand book paradise, and from its legal battles and evictions to its relocation in Mahila Haat.

Combining urban history, fieldwork, memoir and literary affection, she follows the books, booksellers and readers who made the bazaar a parallel world of print: informal, unpredictable, deeply democratic, and impossible to replace.

At once urban history, ethnography, memoir, and a love letter to second-hand books, The Sunday Book Bazaar asks what makes a market more than a place of commerce. Who gets to read? Who gets to sell? Who gets to occupy public space? And what does a city lose when it tidies away the unruly, democratic spaces where its readers first learn to browse, bargain, linger and belong?

About the Author

Dr Kanupriya Dhingra researches book history, print cultures, oral history, and urban studies, with a special focus on Delhi’s parallel book markets. Her doctoral work at SOAS, University of London, supported by the Felix Scholarship and the SOAS Fieldwork Grant, examined Daryaganj’s book culture through extensive interviews with booksellers and readers. She has written for Comparative Critical Studies, The Caravan, Seminar, Scroll, and Himal SouthAsian, and has spoken at institutions including Oxford, the British Library, Jadavpur University, Jamia Millia Islamia, and the University of Delhi. She also writes and translates poetry and fiction from Hindi, Punjabi, and Urdu.

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

Categories
The Lost Mantras

The Grand Finale

Poetry and translation from Malay by Isa Kamari

Essence of Beauty

Fresh with the caress of dew,
Fragrant with the scent of rose,
Joyous with the chirping of birds,
Invigorating with a hearty breakfast,
Captivating with a painted sunrise,

Cheery with a calm soul,
Solid with a clear mind,
Clear with the demands of responsibility,
Firm with steps to work,
Blessed with the dedication to make a living,
Earnest with the utterance of In the Name of God,
Dependent on the destiny of efforts,
Submitted in consistent devotion,
Echoed with His Beautiful Names,

God is Beauty and loves the beautiful,
Reveals the face of His Benevolence,
Expresses the layers of His Majesty,
So, everything returns as beautiful things,
To His Beneficence and Mercy.


Alone

Life is lonesome
In cold nights like this,
when family could not understand,
I no longer cry
while reading the Qur'an.

The Original Mantra


The original mantra came down from heaven,
Following the sin of having a will,
Bestowed with freedom of choice,
Taught the Word and Names of everything.
The ordained natural mould
Does not change.

We are Adam, venerated,
To whom the angels bow.
We are Adam, vile,
Befriended by the Devil till the end of Time,
Who destroys the earth
With hands that have wants,
With souls that are free to act,
Betray and rebel,
Self-sufficient and disobedient.

The original and revered Word and Names
We sully with despicable acts,
We taint with wild thoughts.
The natural mould handed down from prophets
We smash in arrogance.

Alas, the original mantra from Adam
Is conditioned by political and social norms
To suit its locale,
The abode of each people,
That is perfected and purified
by The Mercy of the Worlds.

The spring that flows from heaven,
Has freedom to worship as its undercurrent,
Envied by the angels.
The ultimate pleasure is to
Return the freedom to
The Owner of the Eternal Mantra.

O Believers!
Do not die
Except in a state of total submission.


Prostration


Dirtied hands feel the heat,
Palms on the earth
Next to the forehead.
My heart is grounded,
Asking for mercy.
The cool pouring of Love and forgiveness.


Intimacy


I pick up grains of sand
On my journey home,
No longer unfamiliar,
Though dirtied and bitter.
I wash with prayer and zikr,
The last accompaniment
To brighten the impending grave-pit.
Descending from the peak,
Wishing for a clear spring
At the foot of the hill,
To submerge
My entire soul in You.

*zikr—remembrance


Gift

I realise:
The palpitations in my chest
Are not the flow of my breath,
But a gust of Your mercy.
The stirrings of love
Do not arise from my soul,
But from Your grace.
My complete surrender is
Just Your Embrace.


Mirror of Revelation

O my soul breeze,
I want to gaze at Your face
By the mirror of revelation.

Your whispers
Stir the base of my heart in tenderness.
Longing for the original song—
Without rhythm and melody,
Only silent whispers,

One in ecstasy,
Longing sustains existence:
Existence in perpetual longing.
The self is broken to pieces by doubt.

O my soul breezes
To return to One,
Obliterate in Light.

Isa Kamari has written 12 novels, 3 collections of poetry, a collection of short stories, a book of essays on Singapore Malay poetry, a collection of theatre scripts and lyrics of 3 music albums, all in Malay. His novels have been translated into English, Turkish, Urdu, Arabic, Indonesian, Jawi, Russian, French, Spanish, Korean, Azerbaijan and Mandarin. Several of his essays and selected poems have been translated into English. Isa was conferred the S.E.A Write Award from Thailand (2006), the Singapore Cultural Medallion (2007), the Anugerah Tun Seri Lanang (2009) from the Singapore Malay Language Council, and the Mastera Literary Award (2018) from Brunei Darussalam.

He obtained a BArch (Hons) from the National University of Singapore in 1989, an MPhil (Malay Letters) from Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia in 2008 and is currently pursuing a PhD programme at the Academy of Islamic Studies, Univeristi Malaya. His area of research is on the problem of alienation and the practice of firasat (spiritual intuition) in selected Singapore Malay novels.

The Lost Mantras is a collection that blends spirituality, Malay cultural heritage, and universal human experience. First published as part of Menyap Cinta (Love Greetings, 2022, Nuha Books KL), these poems are like a bridge between mysticism and everyday life, where traditional images (betel, jasmine, kris[1], oil lamps, setanjak[2]) are woven with Qur’anic echoes, prayers, and existential questioning. The collection carries a Sufi resonance—always circling back to longing, humility, surrender, and beauty as signs of God. The poems are not only lyrical but also function as cultural memory: they preserve Malay traditions, communal practices, and village life, while situating them in a cosmic framework of faith, sin, and redemption. The use of Malay customs, rituals, and objects is powerful: it asserts that spirituality is not abstract but embedded in heritage. This makes the collection uniquely Southeast Asian despite its universal in appeal.

[1]A dagger

[2] Malay headgear

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

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

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

Categories
The Lost Mantras

Soulful poems by Isa Kamari

Poetry and translations from Malay by Isa Kamari

From Public Domain
BATIK

A piece of white cloth,
although clean,
does not begin to tell a story.
It absorbs whatever that is spilled,
wet, becomes damp, then dry.
That is thought without rigour,
that is feeling without limits,
that is life without mindfulness.

And the canting teaches perseverance,
and the canting develops decorum,
to contain the hot molten wax,
focus the flow through a pinhole.
The deliberate and gentle movement of the fingers,
controlled drawing of patterns,
limits that are artistic,
sensitivities that are cultured,
leaving boundaries, traces of white dried wax.

The cloth is coloured by choice,
according to taste and temperament.
The resultant pattern is soaked in boiling water.
Control and limits melt, leaving behind principled white lines.

Behold and gaze intently.
If satisfied, it is dried on the clothesline.
If not beautiful yet, it is redrawn—
a representation of the worth of a dynamic personality,
moulded from both freedom and control,
the dance of the canting and molten wax.

MY LOVE

You who are far,
do you pine for me?
I am near, always.

Silence is the antidote of longing.
Distance is the bond of affection.
Prayer is the host of love.
Gratitude knocks on acceptance.

Mutually, let’s not doubt
My Love.


WORDS

Words that are upheld
become the Self, that are lettered
stab and be stabbed till unspoken.

For a Saint,
every word is a trust.
The heart of every word is Silence.


FITRAH
(Natural Tendency)

Alif
Between you and me
perhaps is just a page of forgetfulness,
so I need not feel arrogant
to declare that I have a God
while you have not returned to the fitrah.

Ya
Your end might be nobler than mine,
for you have cried
when attesting of Him in the spiritual sphere,
while I am still in doubt,
gazing at God’s face till now.

Isa Kamari has written 12 novels, 3 collections of poetry, a collection of short stories, a book of essays on Singapore Malay poetry, a collection of theatre scripts and lyrics of 3 music albums, all in Malay. His novels have been translated into English, Turkish, Urdu, Arabic, Indonesian, Jawi, Russian, French, Spanish, Korean, Azerbaijan and Mandarin. Several of his essays and selected poems have been translated into English. Isa was conferred the S.E.A Write Award from Thailand (2006), the Singapore Cultural Medallion (2007), the Anugerah Tun Seri Lanang (2009) from the Singapore Malay Language Council, and the Mastera Literary Award (2018) from Brunei Darussalam.

He obtained a BArch (Hons) from the National University of Singapore in 1989, an MPhil (Malay Letters) from Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia in 2008 and is currently pursuing a PhD programme at the Academy of Islamic Studies, Univeristi Malaya. His area of research is on the problem of alienation and the practice of firasat (spiritual intuition) in selected Singapore Malay novels.

The Lost Mantras is a collection that blends spirituality, Malay cultural heritage, and universal human experience. First published as part of Menyap Cinta (Love Greetings, 2022, Nuha Books KL), these poems are like a bridge between mysticism and everyday life, where traditional images (betel, jasmine, kris[1], oil lamps, setanjak[2]) are woven with Qur’anic echoes, prayers, and existential questioning. The collection carries a Sufi resonance—always circling back to longing, humility, surrender, and beauty as signs of God. The poems are not only lyrical but also function as cultural memory: they preserve Malay traditions, communal practices, and village life, while situating them in a cosmic framework of faith, sin, and redemption. The use of Malay customs, rituals, and objects is powerful: it asserts that spirituality is not abstract but embedded in heritage. This makes the collection uniquely Southeast Asian despite its universal in appeal.

[1]A dagger

[2] Malay headgear

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

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

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