All through my sole visit to Sri Lanka, I was determined to eat nothing but Sinhala food. And so I stuck to eating large quantities of potatoes cooked in the milk of Cocos nucifera, other vegetables cooked in, um, the same milk
It started raining outside my office window. I noticed the droplets running at Godspeed. I realized they are competing with each other. Ferocious; neither of them stopping to think the whyness of the whole situation.
She is a little thing of twelve; filled with the zeal and curiosity that childhood demands. Sitting by the countryside river, she’s rippling its water near the shallow end. Her eyes are intense, as if she never knew anything between black and white and never spent a dull moment in her life. She is in deep thought.
At 7:29 a.m., the elevator in the Iris block of the Gardenia Housing Society trundled to a halt on the ground floor and disgorged nine children and one grandfather. Anant Kamat shouldered his seven-year-old grandson’s schoolbag and hurried out behind the children.
Documented by Shubhada Chari Retold by Heta Pandit
Issue no. 11
Grinding Stories, Songs from Goa is a translation of oviyos or stories sung as women turn the heavy oblong-shaped grinding stone, breaking into spontaneous song, with lyrics that reflect traditional, folkloric themes.
Paris is famous for its museums featuring the world’s greatest artists, but Sebastian Lobo, the permanent resident of Canada, was most interested in checking out the Shakespeare’s bookshop in that city of light.
He hitched his Chetak on to the main stand and sat on a nearby bench itching to get home. Earlier, while visiting his sister in Miramar he had heard the breaking news `Unprecedented numbers of migratory birds to alight on Chorao island’ flashed across the flat screen TV at Espi’s house.
Nirvana was savouring a wedge of luscious Gouda at an after-party of a performance art show when she felt a tap on her shoulder; forever afterwards, this creamy taste was linked to the startling about-turn in her life.
I see a fibrous fog rising off an untrammelled road. Mud beaten down to form a path. The path narrows and narrows deeper into an undergrowth assailing me with its thorny vengeance, digging into my skin,
Your letter today, Shakuntala, I did not need. I look forward daily to hearing from you, hurry to the table where the mail is kept when I see your tiny pale blue envelope waiting for me. A whiff of your perfume greets …
By Augusto R. Rodrigues Translated by Paul Melo e Castro
Issue no. 10
Sancho Serapião do Santo Sepulcro Costa Paredes Malcorado, son of old Nicomedes, the sacristan of Santa Eufrásia, had just entered his twentieth year. He had rudimentary schooling, a basic knowledge of music, and knew how to assist at Mass.
She felt confused and nauseous, and she realized she didn’t know Marcus very well at all. She’d believed him when he spoke about being sensitive to local culture. Did that sensitivity not apply to women? Was he just another Vodka and Chang—white men satisfying an appetite for exotic delicacies on the cheap?
A cross-genre piece … uses fiction and ekphrasis to examine the painting, Esther Reclining by classicist portrait painter Antonio Xavier Trindade. Drawing on writings about Trinidade, Ferrao constructs a narrative from the perspective of Trindade’s daughter, Esther …
By Jaimala Danait Translated from the Konkani 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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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