A short story
Maya Keshari Tuladhar was born with mischievous eyes and a precocious smile. She emanated such airs that all her visiting relatives unwittingly placed that little extra money
Meena Alexander in conversation with Prem Poddar
PP: You've described yourself as a no-nation woman in your last collection The Shock of Arrival, and to talk about
Susan Chacko on the recent NETSAP south asian literary festival in Washington DC
The tidal wave of diasporic Southasian writing is no longer news. What a surprising is that the
A play by Sanjeev mohan
Scene: A bus stop with a typical urban scene as a backdrop;grey buildings with tiny apartment flats and washing drying on the verandahs, children
On the fork where the Patan roads meet
Before walking to the bridge which lies over a comatose Bagmati, where the roads sleep broken and muddy,
crawling with indifferent slime,
Ammachan, I took the dust of your feet,
you inhaled the scent of my hair.
Fingering the tulasi plant of Rama Vilas
you stood quietly
while I flung stones at
I believed in quarks
and DNA
stones bleeding
and ash
tumbling from a holy
palm
within this ripe wound
I build a temple without end from within this open shell
A short story
Major Black was born in the jungle, miles from Colombo, the youngest of sons. He graduated school. He captained the team. As was the custom, he ate
When I moved into the house, it was the children that I noticed first. They were playing cricket in the maidan facing the backyard. Quite good cricket, with makeshift wickets
The road is ours!
Pakistan's economy is greatly dependent on truck transport, just as in other South Asian countries. And like in other parts of the region, the
When I was young 1 thought Ammi was very lucky. In fact I was a little jealous of her. I say a little because of course she was my mother
I live now in a haunted place-without remembered
ghosts—no bitter weeds, no webs of light, no single hair
curled sweetly on the mirror's glass, but one
