Keki N. Daruwalla, is one among India’s foremost writers and poets. He is the author of more than twelve books, including the novel, “For Pepper and Christ” (2009), and five collections of short stories. He received the highest honour in India for Literature, the Sahitya Akademi Award in 1984 for Read more…
Here is a poet, Arvind Krishna Mehrotra, who has been writing for fifty-one years! Fascinated, I wished to read more about him and his work. Well, an introduction about him was very interesting. This was a piece written by the Literary Cell, IIFT, in their online magazine Trading Thoughts. It Read more…
By Arun Kolatkar The tarpaulin flaps are buttoned down on the windows of the state transport bus. all the way up to jejuri. a cold wind keeps whipping and slapping a corner of tarpaulin at your elbow. you look down to the roaring road. you search for the signs of Read more…
By Arun Kolatkar The door was open. Manohar thought it was one more temple. He looked inside. Wondering which god he was going to find. He quickly turned away when a wide eyed calf looked back at him. It isn’t another temple, he said, it’s just a cowshed. © Arun Read more…
By Arun Kolatkar What is god and what is stone the dividing line if it exists is very thin at jejuri and every other stone is god or his cousin there is no crop other than god and god is harvested here around the year and round the clock out Read more…
By Arun Kolatkar Hills demons sand blasted shoulders bladed with shale demons hills cactus thrust up through ribs of rock hills demons knee quartz limestone loins demons hills cactus fang in sky meat hills demons vertebrated with rock cut steps demons hills sun stroked thighs of sand stone hills demons Read more…
By Arun Kolatkar A herd of legends on a hill slope looked up from its grazing when chaitanya came in sight. the hills remained still when chaitanya was passing by a cowbell tinkled when he disappeared from view and the herd of legends returned to its grazing © Arun Kolatkar Read more…
By Arun Kolatkar An old woman grabs hold of your sleeve and tags along. She wants a fifty paise coin. She says she will take you to the horseshoe shrine. You’ve seen it already. She hobbles along anyway and tightens her grip on your shirt. She won’t let you go. Read more…
By Dom Moraes I -wake and find myself in love:And this one time I do not doubt.I only fear, and wander outTo hold long parley with a dove. The innocent and the guilty, metHere in the garden, feel no fear.But I’m afraid of you, my dear.There was a reason: I Read more…
By Dom Moraes Ground in the Victorian lock, stiff,With difficulty screwed open,To admit me to the seven mossed stairsAnd the badly kept garden. Who runs to me in memoryThrough flowers destroyed by no love But the child with brown hair and eyes,Smudged all over with toffee? I lick his cheeks. Read more…