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 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
A short story
For two hours, the man did not so much as pause. His voice did not crack, his forehead did not crease; nor was there a hint of
The man who runs the sports goods store
that also sells old unopened books and
board games in faded boxes, sits with his
tattooed arms folded in the sun.
Yashodhara-I
Already she feels herself
recede in his consciousness,
as if she were an idea
to which he had once
paid lip-service,
or a distant place
he had once visited
I.
Single cloud impaled
on a mallard´s cry
I sit
out of range
across a lotus pond
centre of breath
for a tropical Monet
grown silent, eye-hand-brush watching
great
I.
Beware, my sons, of towns founded by gold-miners,
now abandoned in the saddle of a valley.
Before long, parting ways with your muleteers,
you´ll stumble on routes
no
a short story
The body lay in a heap on the floor. Policemen swarmed all about the room. Rasheeda sat, body slightly bowed, poker-faced, her thin silvery hair twisted into
A short story
Leaving aside his beetle collection, most of Mr Ghosh´s prized possessions had been won in contests. Early on in life he had realised that all he
a short story
Tetramethrin Deltamath had time on his hands and an interest in the sky, so he set across the world, chasing solar eclipses. Packed his bags, kissed his
