By Srirupa Dhar
Suhashini died a year after Abir’s trip to Kolkata. She went peacefully in her sleep one night. Her hands were tightly holding on to the bottom part of her pillow. She clutched as many LEGO figures as she could. Just like those old houses of Bagbazzar that never forgot to protect the people living in them.
By Haris Ahmed
All these years and despite all odds, she had always ensured that her kids won’t turn into some petty urchins like the hundreds of children in the village, who were stuck in the vicious cycle of penury, bereft of a future of their own.
By Achyut Dutt
Indian women, those days, didn’t feel sane unless they were battered in some way, even if it was by their own child. Is it perhaps universal with women everywhere? The more you treat a woman like dirt, the more she adores you and thinks you’re cool? I saw this in my own mother as a child and took full advantage of it.
By Bina Shrestha
Jhumpa Lahiri does it again what she does best: vivid description of emotions, relationships, lifestyle in the simplest of language. She brilliantly describes the daily lives of a Bengali family, from the nitty-gritties like eating fish-stew made in mustard and chilly-paste ground on a stone slab, to the purposelessness of the Naxalite movement that claimed many innocent lives.