Six Poems
By K.S.Subramanian
If happiness is a whirlpool in the river,
Pain too is a fading scar on memory.
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Rabindranath Tagore’s ‘The Broken Home’ (Nastanirh): Chapters 15 & 16
By Lopa Banerjee
Her expectations to relish the pleasures of a new book, a new writing, new exciting news or other sources of amusement diminished; there was nobody she would have to sew for, to write for, nobody for whom she could buy any precious gift.
Eyeballs Don’t Grow Old
By Prasanta Chakravarty
Delhi is a kind city
(contrary to the myth)
The rake’s boudoir
The scholars’ club
The pizza delivery boy’s tip
The Less Fortunate
By Haris Ahmed
The man was shivering; a young lad shoved him down on his knees. Another man loaded his rifle. Before the crowd could react, the man lay lifeless in a pool of blood. The crowd began cheering and roaring in frenzy.
Seven Poems
By Tikuli
cigarettes, float like decomposed corpses
bloated with memories, voices, tense with
longing, rustle through the trees, possessed
and restless the midnight lingers.
Three Poems
By Trivarna Hariharan
then an alarm rings
and everyone is told to get down
and unlearn the names of the places –
they’ve grown up loving all their lives –
in a moment’s time.
Infinite Contestation
By Saitya Brata Das
Writing and creating works of art or pursuing truth in philosophy, all these fragile things that they do – fragile because they don’t have forces at their disposal – this fragility is excessive: they overflow, like a surplus, the entire forceful and powerful realm of politics.
An Interview with Urdu Novelist, Rahman Abbas
By Mosarrap H. Khan
Our land will not tolerate fascist forces, inhuman policies and barbaric incidents of murdering people on the sectarian or religious grounds. India will not be allowed to turn into a ‘Hindu Afghanistan’.
Two Poems
By Kalpana Sinha
The food is Indian, South Indian;
The clientele Malaysian;
This is Devi’s Corner, Bangsar, Kuala Lumpur,
A part of my Malaysia.
Two Poems
By Usha Pisharody
And not one offers itself
After the foreplay.
Such teases.
Three Poems
By Madura Katta
I am a girl. Seventeen years old. Poet.
Brown-colored skin. Plays soccer. Junior at school.
Enjoys reading.
Plays soccer, collects coins, has glasses
Has life. Wait, has life?
Three Poems
By Raj Shekhar Sen
and suddenly Bukowski walks in through the doors
and before he jumps out the windows
he tells you like he would,
all great art is horse-shit,
buy tacos.
