They had come to Amritsar from Lahore after seven-and-a-half years. Attending the hockey match was an excuse, they were more interested in seeing those houses and bazaars that had become…
Read MoreAt first sight, Palanpur is as dull a place as its name suggests. I’m not talking of the hill station called Palampur in Himachal Pradesh, or of the headquarters of…
Read MoreBut oft some shining April morn Is darkened in an hour, And blackest griefs o’er joyous home, Alas! unseen may lower. —Rev. J. H. Gurney ‘Rebati! Rebi! You fire that…
Read MoreThe House of the Ghoshals The river lay ahead. A blue current. A densely-wooded hill sloped upwards on the left. A boy of thirteen or fourteen lay on the ground,…
Read MoreAs a rule, the last speaker of a language no longer uses it. Ethnographers show up at the door with digital recorders, ready to archive every declension, each instance of…
Read More‘Someone turned on a tap’ Dear Angel Ears, Outside the window, a Marathi manus is asking mournfully if anyone would like to buy salt. Or at least that’s what I…
Read MoreI Angela was killed in front of her children. Her husband was the killer. He thrust the knife deep into her fair-skinned, well-rounded belly again and again. She writhed like…
Read MoreTHE SHROUD by Munshi Premchand Outside the hut, father and son sat in silence in front of the firepit already gone cold. Inside, Budhya, the son’s young wife, kept thrashing…
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