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By Jaimala Danait
Translated by Glenis M. Mendonca
Issue no. 8
Darkness reigned through the house that night. There was neither a tube nor bulb light. The only source of light was the mellow light emerging from the lamp hooked on the lamp-stand. Even the children were unusually silent. Like the family members, the lizard too had to go on a hungry stomach.
By Alexandre Moniz Barbosa
Issue no. 8
Mario looked her straight in the eye. “Is this why you don’t sleep well at night? Wondering who this boy could be?” He paused. “Boneca is not a child any longer. She is a grown woman and not the boneca you once cradled in your arms.”
By Brenda Coutinho
Issue no. 8
Nancy plucked the pearl white mogra and placed it gently into the loop of a thin braid of flowers. A whiff of scented breeze ruffled her tresses. Dew drops rolled and played a balancing game on leaf-tops; as a pale brown spider was engrossed in weaving a trap for its unsuspecting victims.
By Salil Chaturvedi
Issue no. 8
Nina really missed being a Coppersmith Barbet on Ramesh’s scooter. The twenty-minute ride was the most thrilling part of her day. She struggled with the scooter as it went up the hill and then she dived downhill in free flight, the wind whistling by her face.
By Peter Nazareth
Issue no. 7
Including a fresh introduction to the play X by Peter Nazareth: At the time, I was thinking about Malcolm X, who had visited Kenya and met Pio Gama Pinto before the latter’s assassination. I was struck by how Malcolm X thought about his life, recognized the forces that had conditioned him, and then remade himself.
By Roanna Gonsalves
Issue no. 7
The thing about Myron is not that he has a daughter. God knows, I have two sons myself. If anything, the reality of children has ensured that we understand each other’s priorities and shelter each other’s vulnerabilities.
By Steve R. E. Pereira
Issue no. 7
The first things that Raymund bought after his father and mother ceremoniously presented him with the tickets at his graduation party were bathing trunks in glittering gunmetal and a pair of sunglasses.
By Savia Viegas
Issue no. 7
Goretti called up Fr. Jeromio from the public phone booth on her way home. She wanted to remind him of his promise to find her a part-time job through his church contacts. He was not at the Jacob Circle Parish, so she left a message with someone.
By Manohar Shetty
Issue no. 6
Marilyn Lobo was known as the miser of St Jerome’s Colony. And not without just cause. During Christmas, when all the Christian households of the colony illuminated their gardens and homes with flickering lights and stars through the nights and well into the first week of January, Marilyn lit up her own veranda with one forlorn string of coloured bulbs and a small star.
By Pundalik N. Naik
Translated from the Konkani by Vidya Pai
Issue no. 6
A marketplace in a village inhabited by lazy people. Some puff on beedies. Some rattle dice or play at sedentary games. Others gossip. A man approaches a group of idlers and addresses one who looks like a labourer.
By Jessica Faleiro
Issue no. 6
Sunny Pereira's obliging voice crested over the neatly upholstered antique Portuguese furniture, slid across the living room, drifted upstairs, and seeped through the crack under Penny's door to where Penny sat at her desk writing.
By Linken Fernandes
Issue no. 6
The sound of a window being shut followed next and was succeeded by another door closing with a loud rap. The sounds continued – this is no exaggeration – for almost a minute and kept getting louder. I guessed that a series of windows and doors were being shut for the night, one room at a time
By Isabel Santa Rita Vas
Issue no. 5
Have you heard the silence when the music is over? The petals twist and tumble without a word ...
By Ivan Arthur
Issue no. 5
'Suzie was just three when Grampa Norbert slyly clicked that mankurad-moment on his newly-acquired Canon.'
By Alisha Souza
Issue no. 5
Seventeen year old Steven sat, pondering these things in agony. His curly-haired head fell in dejection upon his knees ...
By Ahmed Bunglowala
Issue no. 4
Dusky Devika, thirtyish, was lying stark naked in her queen-sized bed, her well-toned body glistening with sweat in the dim light ...
By Janet H. Swinney
Issue no. 4
The guru is an excellent story-teller and, often, as he brews up some potent concoction for them all to drink, he also brews up tales of the remarkable ...
By Nayana Adarkar
Issue no. 4
The door closed behind her. Mariamma was used to the moaning coming from inside the house. It made no difference to her. Those moans had been a part of her life since her youth ...
By Rohan Govenkar
Issue no. 3
I knew people with such names lived in other vaddos, and it was only our 'Durgawadi' that was full of names like Hanumant, Vaikunth, Narayan ...
By Prashila Naik
Issue no. 3
Joel looked away, embarrassed and yet excited. He had heard stories of how so many boys like him just got 'lucky' with women like these.
Translated by Paul Melo e Castro
Issue no. 3
Manuelinho Fernandes had a head for figures right from birth, in Mapuçá. With great patience, he would tot up and check through piles of sums as tall as the Sé in Velha Goa ...
By Jayanti Naik
Issue no. 2
Her beautiful body in its full flush of youth would brush against my own young body. a hundred times a day, but that never was a turn-on for me. The thought of marrying her never crossed my mind.
By Roanna Gonsalves
Issue no. 2
When the spitters had settled down as the train began to move, I felt conflicting currents within me. I was conscious of my power as a young exotic-looking woman ...
By Jessica Faleiro
Issue no. 2
Yes, I've met a lady with a carbon footprint reducing business, an IT consultant who moonlights as a tarot card reader, an artist, a professional storyteller ...
By R. Benedito Ferrão
Issue no. 8
A cross-genre piece uses fiction and ekphrasis to examine the painting, ‘Esther Reclining’ by classicist portrait painter Antonio Xavier Trinidade. Drawing on writings about Trinidade, Ferrao constructs a narrative from Trinidade’s daughter, Esther’s perspective. ‘Some might say my father’s work evokes Velasquez, in his use of chiaroscuro. But they’ll stop short there …’