It is enough— Enough to be here, Beneath the bulb of a wonton shop.
I know of my feeble frame of its graying at the edges.
migratory animal Are you looking for a home?
It was the shade of the ashwath that vanquished all one’s weariness from the fiery heat of Choitro. Or else it was not possible for fatigue to be eliminated so quickly.
The night after the story got published, Jamal stormed to my home at around 11 PM, drenched in the rain. That was the first and only time Jamal raised his voice against me
"That’s why I have jars of jealousy, anger, sadness, monotony, but this – it’s important."
I will not even begin with the skies
One sits silently. Her eyes blink sometimes. Sometimes her lips tremble a little, or they don’t tremble at all.
Behind the bangles that jingle ominously in the dark, there is a voice—a voice that has long been silenced
I’d never felt sadder at the prospect of not being a part of someone else’s story.
The sky to the west and overhead is mired in darkness; but to the east, light is gleaming out like a jasper stone, as clear as crystal.
The infallible whiteness of the walls, the omnipresent smell of disinfectants, and the fields of artificial grass come back to me. Swimming before me are visions of smiling children and the legions of overworked childcare professionals constantly at their service. Every blink threatens to permanently relocate me to their world of ceaseless laughter.
Hannah's protagonist Freddie is attempting to make progress on her novel by working at the Boston Public Library, when she—along with three of the people she is sharing a table with—are transfixed by the sound of a woman screaming somewhere in the Library.
Over the two-week period, six original short stories by emerging South Asian writers will be published on Himal Southasia’s website
Although the story doesn’t talk about how this particular cafe became a time-travelling spot to begin with, reading through to the last page made me feel that the café was always there-since the beginning of time.
It’s God’s funny way of reminding me that all that is received is a gift that is broken.
Perhaps Martin Amis’s works do not grab me for the most part because it veers too far away from the humanism of, say, Saul Bellow—a writer Martin greatly admires and has written about extensively.
Institutional racism in colonies, migration, flawed anti-monarchy sentiments stemming from personal vendettas, and the need for rebellion permeate the lives of these characters.
There is an element of the unexpected in the twinning of fiction and ecology. A sense of unease of sorts exists in the pairing together of fiction, a form of narrative that is untrue, with the imminent ecological disaster, an environmental inevitability that is true.
