Father, when he passed on, left dust on a table of papers, left debts and daughters, a bedwetting grandson named by the toss of a coin after him, a house that leaned slowly through our growing years on a bent coconut tree in the yard. Being the burning type, he burned properly at the cremation […]
Obituary by A.K. Ramanujan Read More »
And every year the Ghaghra changes course turning over and over in her sleep. In the afternoon she is a grey smudge exploring a grey canvas. When dusk reaches her through an overhang of cloud she is overstewed coffee. At night she is a red weal across the spine of the land. Driving at dusk
The Ghagra In Spate By Keki N. Daruwalla Read More »
the tarpaulin flaps are buttoned down on the windows of the state transport bus. all the way up to jejuri. a cold wind keeps whipping and slapping a corner of tarpaulin at your elbow. you look down to the roaring road. you search for the signs of daybreak in what little light spills out of
The Bus by Arun Kolatkar Read More »
A low temple keeps its gods in the dark. You lend a matchbox to the priest. One by one the gods come to light. Amused bronze. Smiling stone. Unsurprised. For a moment the length of a matchstick gesture after gesture revives and dies. Stance after lost stance is found and lost again. Who was that, you
A Low Temple by Arun Kolatkar Read More »
An old woman grabs hold of your sleeve and tags along. She wants a fifty paise coin. She says she will take you to the horseshoe shrine. You’ve seen it already. She hobbles along anyway and tightens her grip on your shirt She won’t let you go. You know how old women are. They stick
An Old Woman by Arun Kolatkar Read More »
I am standing for peace and non-violence. Why world is fighting fighting Why all people of world Are not following Mahatma Gandhi, I am simply not understanding. Ancient Indian Wisdom is 100% correct, I should say even 200% correct, But modern generation is neglecting – Too much going for fashion and foreign thing. Other day
The Patriot by Nissim Ezekiel Read More »
As a man approaches thirty he may take stock of himself. Not that anything important happens. – At thirty the mud will have settled: you see yourself in a mirror. Perhaps, refuse the image as yours. – Makes no difference, unless you overtake yourself. Pause for breath. Time gave you distance: you see little else.
Exile by R. Parthasarthy Read More »
In Madurai, city of temples and poets, who sang of cities and temples, every summer a river dries to a trickle in the sand, baring the sand ribs, straw and women’s hair clogging the watergates at the rusty bars under the bridges with patches of repair all over them the wet stones glistening like sleepy
A River By A. K. Ramanujan Read More »
It was hard to believe the flesh was heavy on my back. The fisherman said: Will you have her, carelessly, trailing his nets and his nerves, as though his words sanctified the purpose with which he faced himself. I saw his white bone thrash his eyes. I followed him across the sprawling sands, my mind
Hunger By Jayanta Mahapatra Read More »
Once upon a time a frog Croaked away in Bingle Bog Every night from dusk to dawn He croaked awn and awn and awn Other creatures loathed his voice, But, alas, they had no choice, And the crass cacophony Blared out from the sumac tree At whose foot the frog each night Minstrelled on till
The Frog and the Nightingale By Vikram Seth Read More »