‘I See History as Junk, and Junk as Historical’ Devdan Chaudhuri
Novel-Gazing: An Essay on Milan Kundera Devdan Chaudhuri
My Journey: Seeing Inside Nibedita Sen
Conversations with Jorge Luis Borges Professor Shiv K. Kumar
Photo Feature Craig Semetko
Indie in India Rachel Joy Tanzer


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In Focus



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    An Absentee Father
    Moneeza Hashmi
    I was very young so my memory is very sketchy about my father, Faiz Ahmed Faiz. He was working for a newspaper and worked late hours. Most of the times, I would see him sleeping in the morning and...
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    Father Was a Peculiar Man
    Carlo Pizzati
    As my father explained to me while driving through the countryside that afternoon, the name Carlo is simply yet another variation of the Old Germanic “Karla”, meaning “free man”. Father adored Anglo-Saxon culture,
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    Trading Business
    Qais Akbar Omar
    In the third year of the Taliban, 1998, Father and I were waiting for customers in our carpet shop on Chicken Street in Kabul. Customers were scarce. In fact, we had not sold anything in weeks. The sun was...
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    Sifting Sand
    Manreet Sodhi Someshwar
    I woke up today to two things: the memory of my father, and Reshma’s haunting ‘vey main chori chori’. Each in itself is not unusual. Since my father passed away seventeen years ago, there are days when I wake...
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    The Roof is Gone, the House Uncovered
    Omair Ahmad
    Five years ago, while I was walking back from work, from my new job that my father approved of because it covered some health insurance, my phone rang. It was my uncle, my father’s twin brother, five minutes younger...
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    My Ear At His Heart
    Rahul Singh
    My father, Khushwant Singh, passed away just over a year ago, at the age of 99. He went peacefully, just as he had wanted, his mental faculties quite intact, though he had become rather deaf in the last couple...
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    Abba, the Legend
    Zila Khan
    Any attempt at understanding my father, Ustad Vilayat Khan, leads me to the luminous heritage of his genius. It’s a legacy that lives on: The music and vocal style — gat (the main part of a Hindustani raga performance...
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    An Inspiration
    Zorawar Kalra
    My father, Mr Jiggs Kalra, has spent a major part of his life reviving, restoring, recording, reinventing and reintroducing Indian cuisine to diners from across the globe and placing it on the global map, earning him the title of...
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    A Cut Above the Rest
    Jawed Habib
    My relationship with my father, Jahir Habib, has never been adrift. Growing up, it was explained away as “he’s quiet”. As I get older, I begin to understand him better and I think that he was actually quite a...
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    Dance Chose Him
    Yamini Reddy
    It is natural for all daughters to find their father the best man in the world, but when I say my father is one of the greatest dads in the world I am not exaggerating. My father is one...
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    An Advocate of Love
    Sarmad Faraz
    Ahmad Faraz was not only a great poet, but a great father too. He was loving and caring. My father was considered as a resistance poet and was a representative of Urdu literature in the world. Pakistan was deprived...
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    Life After Life
    Shahnaz Husain
    Everyone has a god on earth they worship. I worshipped my father. I worshipped the ground he walked on. Whatever I am today and whatever I will be or achieve in the future, I owe it all to his...
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    The Accidental Businessman
    Gautam Padmanabhan
    My earliest memory of my father, K.S. Padmanabhan, is of him reading bedtime stories to me. It was his deep voice combined with images from the Classics Illustrated series that first transported me to the fictional universe of Alexandre...
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    The Best Times I Never Had
    Krishna Shastri Devulapalli
    Children go through everything that adults do: jealousy, pain, love, even lust. You could have asked any eight-year-old in Vidya Vihar what he thought of Miss DeCosta and watch him squirm with his phantom libido to confirm my theory....
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    ‘He Insisted That We Live’
    Fatima Bhutto
    My father (Murtaza Bhutto) was very loving and he raised me to live with love, hope and optimism. It is because of his assassination and the murder of my uncle (Shahnawaz Bhutto) and grandfather (Zulfikar Ali Bhutto, who was...
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    Love, Life and Literature, in the Presence of Father
    Baran Farooqi
    My father is a Vigilance Officer.” This was what I was instructed to say in reply should anyone ask at my new school. By “New School” I mean the hoary St. Mary’s Convent, the oldest girls’ school in Allahabad...
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    Baba
    Nandita Das
    I have always wanted to capture, in some form or another, my feelings about Baba, as I call him, but I want to believe that the respect and affection I have for Baba is not only because he is...


Interviews




Poetry



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    Mountains
    Abhay K
    I wish to lose myself, in your ancient immensity, in your torrents, in your winds. I wish to merge with you, to soak up the light, to hide in your green depths, to be your breath. I wish to...
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    Inheritance 1
    Annie Zaidi
    Holding open the bathrobe, she looks for signs: a housewife’s belly of leftovers and fasts and scars left by gut and lung experts who gave assurances of indefinite time before ripping out half an intestine. She flips words over...
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    Turning Off The Lights
    Tishani Doshi
    These walls are from yesterday. Today, rain falls like history, and trees speak of distant woes. My father stands on a cliff contemplating childhood. By afternoon, the world has changed, become smaller, desolate. All this is nothing — these...
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    Sermon
    Elizabeth T Gray Jr.
    Because that’s how you break through, said Blake. How you see desire for what it is. His brown hair was matting nicely, his loincloth getting the hang of him. He had some chants down pat and nicely-emerging ribs. Om-most...
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    Something Rich and Strange
    Vijay Nambisan
    He was past patience when he threw in his lot with the sea. He abandoned himself to the sweep and swell of water, putting away the thought that this was permanent and could not be cured By any charm...
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    Midnight, Christmas Eve
    Imtiaz Dharker
    So simple, on a night like this, to lose all fear and lean too far out on the bridge in admiration of the stars that throw themselves into black water and disappear. From the river’s edge a song begins,...
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    The City is Claimed
    Athena Kashyap
    Stench of male piss Rising, hissing. Men pull the chain Stop trains, buses Legs wide Unzip sprinkle Blessing upon soil Concrete, tile Street corners Bus wheels, bushes Stretches of wall Painted over with Benevolent
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    Chalk Dust on The Air
    Gregory Pardlo
    Our hero explains what lines behave as waves also behave as particles depending upon the presence of observers, a market of admirers, etc. Think of sifted sands Tibetan monks spend months to whisk in minutes:

Fiction



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    A Secret Life
    Siddhartha Gigoo
    I have never enjoyed waiting for trains after my encounter with a young man on the half-deserted platform of a railway station. It was a cloudy evening and crows were swirling in the sky. The first time I saw...
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    The Sins of a Writer-Son
    Rajorshi Chakraborti
    My father is part of a student movement that has determined to target for assassination a significant Western political personality who will be visiting the city for three days. He is important enough to merit an open-car procession down...
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    Ameen in Heaven
    Shahnaz Bashir
    An image of scented smoke — gentle and sensual wisps, hung in air — looks like the image of bones in an X-ray film. The fair ladies in brocaded, laced, silver-frilled, white cambric dresses are so beautifully delicate that...
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    The Self and the Other
    Devdan Chaudhuri
    The old mountains wake up like children, dazzling and sparkling in the sun. By mid-afternoon, they resume their ancient habits. They smoke their ascetic grass, and daze away into oblivion, within a hazy mist of rain and clouds. This...
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    Portrait of Another Woman
    Shazia Omar
    Mrs. Khan wasn’t bothered by the subject of the painting so much as the drama that surrounded it. Her husband was not an extravagant man, but the day he brought the painting home, he was in a frenzy, knocking...
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    Jerusalem
    Ranbir Singh Sidhu
    She imagined herself in the dogs’ eyes, rising up from under the ground as she climbed the stairs from the street into the wide garden. They had been lazing under the shade of wooden benches on the porch, and...

Essays



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