“The longing to touch…I feel gratitude when I touch someone — as well as affection etc. The person has allowed me proof that I have a body — and that there are bodies in the world. — Susan Sontag, from As
Some novelists are all but born knowing they should write. Some study literature, or creative writing, become experts in the academic form of the art. Some belong to families of writers and words are their legacy.But not me.
It has been raining continuously for three days, but it feels like it has rained forty days and forty nights. An image of Noah’s Ark floods my mind. I want to climb into it with my family. We are four
It will regret such gentle restraint, remorse is always a day behind. It hunches, invisibly — like a sick sparrow’s releasing body, cracked beak, marble eyes, feathers spineless — but can’t be unseen. There is no flight from here, just splinters
When everyone was sleeping deeply, I was lost in the dawn full of smog. The dawn was pious, but the presence of smog left me confused. Then I gradually wondered about the unusual presence of smog in that beautiful dawn. While
Your crystalline eyes, Deepest than the seven seas Change colour From brown to blue to green From green to turquoise to grey And then to see through glass like They are deep They speak They smile They go sad… They
Was it the first slap, The tingle of it against my skin Or the first flutter of butterflies In my stomach, that chased them all away. That embedded them deep down In my subconscious, to be forgotten, To be trodden
Aliyah Daskal Painting- Acrylic on Paper by Ammar Aziz Aliyah Daskal has a strange memory of a synagogue In one of the narrowest streets of old Lahore: The Star of David engraved on a brick wall And a pipal
Would we get along with our ancestors? Do you wonder if they’d even like us? We claim that we all come from them but then we expect they’ll take the blame. My great-great-grandfather was paid to go all the way
My bookshelves are stacked with journals, children’s books, histories, dictionaries, novels, travel guides, philosophy and the thousands of books I read in my youth and continue reading today. I pull out Bertrand Russell’s A History of Western Philosophy. I was
Is fading the memory of its son, Who for words must ride the night Fleeing ears that hear thunder on a baby’s purity guggle, Zvegona, my homestead, Ancestors are watching Elders on a scheming mission Trading lies with more lies The
A seventy-year-old woman who was never allowed to leave home visits a park in the centre of town she sits on a broken wooden bench basking in the warmth of the morning sun around the park residents of the neighbourhood
Stripped of your beauty, Stripped of your name. Stripped of everything that you thought you would have, Stripped of your freedom to go back to your place of origin. Stripped of the friendship you have with your people, Stripped of
Amudha felt like opening her eyes. At the same time, she was a bit afraid. It was just one month previously that, through her co-construction worker, she had begun to drink; in return for Amudha’s kind gesture in teaching her
My parents refuse to let me tell them about how the world is ending: the high end stores in NYC are boarded up, and people are lying on the bitumen-laid bridge in Portland in peaceful protest, and people in police uniform
The conceivable prescient books, by notable authors in literature, narrated the theme of isolation, community, and love. And in this respect, they are powerfully relatable to our present situation, conveying a hope that we all have been through this
I admit it, I don’t even like them just bought them on a whim but as my hand closes around each creamy sliced-off stalk end with its cool clasp of overlapping leaves the same pallid green as the porcelain
When every day is Sunday morning and none of the bells are ringing and all the inhabitants are inside praying to some unseen god that offers no relief from their ongoing sorrow then you know that these must be
In those pathless roads In those shoreless seas In the air so mutilated In the sadness of me I lived another day In this world of asininity In this nature of tranquillity In the existence of fatality Off, the humanity
It’s only been a week since Elena stroked my forehead, but it feels like it happened in a different lifetime. I’ve had to call Irwin’s office several times, but when Elena answers the phone, she sounds distant and businesslike. I
Right now, I’ll message loved ones And make sure that they’re okay Then I’ll read Milk & Honey A little later in the day In the night, I’ll start a painting Of a girl with turquoise eyes And maybe write
This period of lockdown and uncertainty has been a dark time for the entire world. Many photographers and artists across the globe came forward to document the images of this unwarranted pandemic. I am originally from Jaffna, Srilanka and now residing
And Then She Took A Nap She watched as the links grew Like dots on a piece of white paper Crooked black lines scrawling across blue skies Towers like spider webs climbing over pink horizons Cables like serpents writhing under green
She was seated on the low bench with a warm cup of kahata the cupped between her palms. She watched the ocean becoming calm with dainty white ripples gushing and disappearing on the sandy beach. The bright orange ball was gradually
It’s not very often that I feel inspired to write a story or to express what’s going on in my life. Mostly because I don’t consider myself that great a writer. However, I had the most amazing breakthrough yesterday. Perhaps the
I feel numb broken and lifeless I lay still in bed My legs have turned into large trunks of a wild cherry tree My room feels snug and safe The dark drapes of curtains of plush mauve are half-drawn to
Why would one shoelace break before the other? Aren’t they meant to live and die as one? Were there unseen stresses we did not expect? Biases in usage we could not predict? Underlying weaknesses we failed to diagnose? At what
Did you know roots would run through into deep dark crevices of land? of heart? run across breaking boundaries of land? of heart? Did you know branches would spread bear burdens, tears? grant hope? Leaves caressed by dry winds would
Your eyes are so selfish… Full of passion; searching for a sigh of bliss Show me your needs, what can I give? I know you are all his; an object to please.
“Was your partner a virgin before you met him?” the GP at the Medical Centre asked me. “I don’t know. At least that’s what I like to think…” I answered, puzzled by his question. “Australian couples cheat all the time.
Lock Down Photo Diary – Chennai Photography is the simplest thing in the world, but it is incredibly complicated to make it really work. – Martin Parr (Photojournalist) Photographs tell stories. They may be nothing more than an echo of
Thud I throw two red balls at the brick wall of our house. Thud Charlie Chaplin went to France. To show the ladies how to dance First you do the rhumba Then you do the kicks Then you do the
On a day like this dawn hauls herself upright pink fingers curling above the rim on a day like this queuing for basics among empty shelves spilt frozen peas scrunch underfoot on a day like this navigating the
Do not fear, do not panic: words I keep hearing everywhere I turn. A part of me wants to scream the words, what if! What if I wake up tomorrow and there is nowhere to run to, or I am too
Is it the return of The Black Death? A new holocaust? A cleanse? We are making history these days Living the sci-fi novels of yesterday And I think of all the holocaust movies where the rations were limited Housebound
I settle into captivity with a beloved hallucination. Bearing a face of lulling lucid dreams. Our indiscernible torsos collide in this sanctuary of candlelight and vapour abiding. Uninterrupted. And I’m falling into this misled by the desires of this heart unsettled,
Dear Baba, Since you left us, nothing has much changed except that we could not celebrate Bebo’s birthday last year. I forgot to tell you about the postponement of the marriage of your nephew because he was
Sunday, 1 February The day dawns. Sulphur-crested cockatoos shriek as they rise from the trees. Startled kookaburras call out in raucous laughter and baby magpies squawk. By mid-morning, heat and humidity drive the locals to the spring-fed creek that bubbles
So at last we made CBS Saw the burnt out rubble at seven Eden on earth that piece of heaven (or so they said) Burnt now, all smoke and loot and sand as the great silence of death fell
He always worried about his kids’ safety. It propelled him to make sure someone accompanied them wherever they went, be it school or recreation. Recently, he had installed cameras in their rooms that were connected to devices so he and his
In trees, in crayon leaves, a box of autumn with a sharpener of birds. How my eyes flew to them. How flocks of big-horned clouds were un-shepherded like hope and went everywhere they shouldn’t be able to: my hands, my
Vanni: A Family’s Struggle Through the Sri Lankan Conflict – A Novel by Benjamin Dix and Lindsay Pollock “The full story of the 2009 war in Sri Lanka has largely been ignored by the global press and international society. This
So the cat untwists in midair beneath the apple tree, a blackbird fluttering backwards from her paws as she lands eyes vivid with desire, crouches, wriggles, deliberates, blinks. So, too, an apple springs unbitten from your hand to its twig, unripens
Discuss on Facebook the coordinates of the graves of the lost children repeat the knowledge we have of no place, of no name oblivious to the visceral sadness that still abides in living memories. Stillborn silence — the historic trope from the
Like corner shops to estate agencies to grocery stores, they have “funeral directors” in almost every street, road or shopping mall. And, it is considered a part of living to plan for death, that shouldn’t become a burden on relatives or
Warm, soft, brown soil of mine No shipped cold hard white marble Parched, tired fingers – also mine Michelangelo’s discarded chisel Does not suffice Beautified, refined you need not be In death, in memory, in life You were sun scorched black-brown Tired, forgotten,
Tent flaps flutter in the breeze. Dust stirs and lingers in the air, in the mouth. Another day—and I’m still here. The queue grows longer every morning. By the time our water container is filled, I’ve at least sweated away half that
I’m a closet smoker, a closet drinker, a closet abuser. I destroy the precious purpose of a closet. I shall now forge a new purpose. A closet sanctuary. No clothes could hide my insecurities. No lipstick or eyeliner could hide
春の風桜の花を連れていく… Cold winter had long passed. The snow had begun to slowly melt away, also taking the sorrows of the villagers along with it, giving way to the fragrant spring odours, and new hopes that kindled in the women’s hearts. The
Don’t go to the river mother whispers last days of harvest under the molten sun air is still, breathless waves of heat distort the view beneath boundary trees this drowsy afternoon my toes cooling in the trickle don’t go
This word comes as the voice of the well; A thousand children— A hundred artists, drunk, lost their way— those who fell while crossing over the woven coconut fence, clandestinely, in the ecstasy of desire— I know the chapter of
She’s gone! Moved out of sight. Consumed by a wave of might. The mystery caused a little stir, Until life resumed without her. Lost at sea without a trace, Her sail was up when she went down in haste.
མིའི་རིགས་ཀྱི་མུན་ནག་དེ་ རང་ཁྱིམ་གྱི་མུན་ནག་ཏུ་གྱུར The darkness of humanity has become the darkness of my home. —Kyabchen Deydrol སྐྱབས་ཆེན་བདེ་གྲོལ, translation by Lowell Cook and the author A Tibetan professor sneaks us home to share a meal with his family. He does
Highly embellished, in the heart of the capital, crammed within its walls, Gangaramaya Temple is infested with exhibits – chandeliers, Buddha statues, sculptures, coins, carvings, collectibles… High-end, ostentatious Buddhist culture from around the world. It looks grand, yet cosy
I left Thinking the sun was safely wrapped up in a bundle of clothes at the bottom of my bag but leaving in such a hurry I didn’t realize I left the sun in your chest your palms pressed against the
Lawanya Wijesekara A flower’s life on earth is shortened, as it’s plucked from the ground it’s born Yet its death is celebrated in a glass coffin of a vase… Death becomes melodramatic A sight, news, a story to tell A movie
I’ve got skin, miles and miles of skin. covered and adorned with colours, be it of cotton, silk or others. It’s perfect in concealing my cells and the scars I possess But your eyes would lurk somewhere that has deeper
Mortality isn’t something you think about when you’re seven. Even when your Dadaji dies the year you turn seven. For the rest of your life, you will remember this kind short-sighted man with nausea and outrage. Nausea because he was the first
I’m not a displaced person living in uncertainty marginalised and not heard. I have the right to vote freedom of speech hard-earned by my migrant ancestors. My children have married into other cultures chosen other religions blessing our family with
In a corner of my mother’s kitchen cupboard, there was a brown glass and a plate, slightly cracked, “Reserve them for the Help”, she’d snap “Don’t drink from them, keep them at the back.” There was separate access from the back
Clocks and mirrors Carries on working Even though when No one is staring Today dissolves Into tomorrow Like two different Droplets of dew Travelled from yesterday On the wings of Joy and sorrow.
I do no more comprehend the language of this nation For our mother’s tongue tastes soured Fretful rapacity of our fathers has sullied her glory with avarice The tongue of love has been besmirched by despise The tongue of war
It’s a terracotta house. On the terracotta wall there is the painting of my love It’s the painting that changes its hue as the season changes its own. There is a flash at the end of the tunnel A flash
She said: You are far away from home. You can’t meet your friends and family. Who do you miss the most? With a breaking voice, I whispered: I only miss the fact that nobody will miss me.
An Interview With Megan Dhakshini Megan Dhakshini is a multi-faceted creative: a writer, singer and voice actor, and it is her voice and the flowing conveyance of self that is evident in her first book of poems, ‘Poison Apple’. Megan’s
There’s one in every family the black sheep the bull there are names for me you won’t find on Wikipedia whispered, rumoured too ugly to share I wanted to tell my story but there are no words only mythologies yes the
It’s Sunday afternoon and she’s in the wash house standing in stocking feet on the roof of theold doll’s house, the one Uncle John Murphy made, and she’s rocking backwards andforwards …bored, bored, bored…rebod rebod rebod rebod rebod rebod rebod rebod rebod
In a city full of programmers I’m troubleshooting my life In a city full of coders I’m trying to hold my poise In a city full of hikers I’m walking my own way In a city full of rain I’m
I am no Syrian woman. I am no brave, resistant, resilient, heroic Syrian woman. And no matter how many Syrian friends I have, how much Arabic I strive to learn nor how many Nizar Qabbani’s poems I read. I am
There’s something magical about Beyond the Clouds, an exquisite yet obnoxious Indian-set movie. Majid Majidi is an Iranian film director whose poignant stories have never failed to evoke the deeper feelings of the viewers. Along with Abbas Kiarostami and Mohsen
—Kyabchen Dedrol སྐྱབས་ཆེན་བདེ་གྲོལ, translation by Lowell Cook and the author Poetry is the impoverished wick of a spent butter lamp. Poetry is the dog that scuttles an arc around the master’s thrashing body. Poetry is the grinding adzi bead’s sacred blood-spot
This poem cannot be finished off writing, this song not ended, thirst not quenched; Every memory refuses to be effaced, every plot declines to produce, every face is reluctant to endure. A dream unwilling to dissolve, lingers forever– although I
People have been sharing images of religious co-existence in this country to exemplify who we are as people – so I thought of sharing a story of my own. My father was a very sarcastic atheist – but his looks
Who’s going to want you with all you’ve done? I wonder what crimes I’ve committed other than love the way I felt. Is it really my fault that I’ve loved those who were unworthy? Does my potency as a wife
The Hindi word Dalit can be translated as divided, split, broken, scattered… like a handful of rose petals flung into sugared water to flavour gulab jamun soft, delectable, melt in the mouth dumplings… but there is nothing soft or sweet
They had had another run-in. No matter how much she tried avoiding it. And it was right when she had to rush out of the house too. She hated the way someone could belittle another person and then hours
I stood against the front door, staring up at her, bags in her hand. As my mother’s voice strengthened, my body weakened. I shrank to the ground, hugging my knees to my chest, wanting to scream: shut the fuck
It was a humid Saturday afternoon. The mugginess around had caressed most of my friends at God’s Children into an untimely siesta. Sister, in her white habit, too, was busy sleeping. The cleaning lady, Domenica, had taken the day
Sunshine gives me the shadows of black Rainstorm brings up the darkest night… Windy atmosphere touches my soul, hay… Hold my breath … I am fading away.. These little things put my mind on stake.. That giant man follows me up
It’s 42 Degrees. In between the hustle and bustle of Gardezi Bazaar, Beggars line up at the kerb of each street. Upper-class auratein walk with conceit, draped in their fancy chadars, clacking their heels. Mard blast angraazi music, car windows
Tea with the Demon In terms of beauty that hackneyed dragon still beating its wings everything can be broken down a little further each howling beast like the rest of us imperfect, uncertain bearing witness I didn’t like the look
It was a beautiful day in some far future time, and the world is at peace and happiness is everywhere. In a school, a teacher enters the class, and students mainly of 12 to 14 years of age stand up
Somebody kills Somebody spills blood I too weep for the people who bleed I too curse the people who make another bleed. “Are you a Muslim? Come out and reply.” Somebody yells outside my house They bang the doors and
I bring you out of the wardrobe dressed in Astrakhan,foetal curls of black wool that never breathed.I stroke and stroke and bury my face in your warmth.Feeling you yield, I lift the heavy collar until it coversmy ears and half my
How would you like to feel in your body J Mase III asked before beginning his workshop with a group of thirteen womxn and trans folx dealing with body trauma? How would you humanise your scars? Can you write yourself
Not a hop, step and jump, but a stumblefrom the gravel road, when a stubbed toeleads the way to a giant leap since the house was on the low side of the streetapproached by descending steps, flanked by rose bushes
හෙවත් අනිච්ඡාවත සංකාරා A woman was killed in my neighbourhood in 2011, because of Love! I saw it with my own eyes, as did the many who were around. Millions of women are getting killed everywhere in the world but,
At the age of six, probablyI remember my mother sayingthat there are these sacred parts in my body that I should not let anyone touchAnd to me it seemed pretty absurd, how the ugliest and the dirtiest partsbecome sacred? And I
Ganesh at Saravana’s flicks, in a frenzy,the sequined sarees off the display lineabove the doorway, as the rain beats in,and Selvakumari crouches on the pavement, her face crumpled, shivering,by the wall of The Happy Food Corner. Dressed in grimy, threadbare rags,Her
To Ali Osama and mewe dreamtof making Palestine free.From Yarmouk* we used to followthe events in Gaza and imaginewe would dieas martyrson Palestinian soil. We could neverhave imagined that warwould knock on our doors.We could never have imaginedthat Osama would leave this
Is this where that karthakolomban tree was?’ Standing near the sun-wilted crimson anthurium flowers, Jude was so deeply lost in thought that he did not realise his Bata flip-flops were being attacked by a sea of angry ants. The cloudy sky above
The grandmother ever at my shoulderWhat harm another little nub of butter?A pinch of sage would lift the whole thing Navigating the gaps as nimbly now as she didIn her dimly-lit kitchen with its three trip-up steps to sprinkle and stirHer
Art is used to exploring and deconstructing social boundaries. Art is a catalyst for change in any society. Raghunath Sahoo from Bhubaneswar, India is known for his brilliant watercolour works. His artworks show real-life scenes, people, children and still
Men always laughedAbout my slightly overgrown breasts: ‘Boys are not supposed to haveThese things!’This made me a bit of a hunchback. Stiff walk, rounded shoulders, hiding ‘things’, beneath my loose shirt, I was scared of becoming a womanAs a preteen. Why
Where are you, oh my fairy godmother!You searched this corner and the other.Swabbing the stains of your own goreWhen his anger shoved you and more. Do you exist or did you become extinct?You moaned in silence but distinct.He might hear me cry
First it was gold the untold storyraindrops in the gardenof longing she wrote it down tore it, ate the wordsthey were anything but sweetswallowed hard what gorgonthat was just a bad hair day my ringlets my pearlshow many men were lost
I learned to love storms as a young man,Because storms were all I knew.Anger and intensity everywhere;Home daily ripped by lightning flashesOf unexpected violence and unexplained pain. I learned to survive on an open sea Of pain and hostility; Hiding
Human Rights Watch Film Festival 2019 Through A Woman’s Eye The Human Rights Watch Film Festival showcased some exceptional documentary and feature films in London, from March 13th to 22nd, 2019. The international listing included poignant stories from across the world: from