When Abhijit Dasgupta dreamt of writing a novel he never thought the process of getting an agent would take him on such a journey; addicted to that Send button he queried no less than a thousand agents. And rejection was going to hinder him.

Children of a lesser God – dedicated to the children of Africa by Naina Mehta

Chappati by QurraTul Anne

Gordon Still Walking 2009 by Freiburg based poet, Satis Shroff.

What a night! I spent the last few hours in the company of some of the richest, diverse and talented writers. The first thing that struck me, I was listed for a VIP table. I don’t know if it was a mistake but I wasn’t about to complain. I guess wearing a sparkly gown, headscarf and matching handbag and not forgetting my gorgeous silver heels, I did fit into the evening nicely! Everyone kept asking me what award I was up for? I was a little tempted to make something …

I am not an intelligent man, nor handsome, sensible or even pragmatic. I’ve never been popular or well known; often reminding people of my name and what I do as they easily forget who I am. Finding me in a myriad of faces is virtually impossible and trying to distinguish my age and ethnic origin, at my age, is tiring. And while some of these issues might make one feel insecure or self conscious, it makes me rather comfortable to know my actions are neglected, or overlooked, and thus never …

Ahmed looked at the battered sign above the shop window. His pride and joy, the first restaurant in the road to have neon lights. But these days not all the lights worked, his once prized possession now read “TANDOO BATI HOSE”. He put his key in the door and opened the rickety door, a waft of stale curry greeted him. He trudged through the rotting carpet and set his keys down on the bar. Ahmed was a man on the edge, he was about to lose …

Trundling up in this chairlift
Hunching into my collar
Higher and higher
Colder and colder
Leaving behind the clamour
Of those who, ant-like
Follow each other
Down the lower slopes
I am first
To reach the top
Lifting the safety bar
Sliding on to the waiting piste
A crown of peaks all around
Sharp, snow covered
Under the blue sky
They watch me
I am centre stage
Racing down the mountain
Hearing the sliding of my skis
On the new snow
And there, I heard that voice say
Play on, little one, this is your day.

“Please, sir, can I have a break?”
I looked up from the photocopier-cum-printer. Who said that? Everyone was either on the telephone, tapping away at their keyboards or reading through some legal document. I didn’t recognise the voice. “Angela, did you ask me something just now?” I asked the lawyer whose desk was the closest to the photocopier.
“Er no,” replied Angela.
“Oh, ok, I thought I heard something.” I carried on loading the rest of the documentation into the feeder tray of the photocopier. One of the partners, Mr Whitmore, had asked …

Sunshine sparkled through the grey afternoon. I sat in on the bench, wrapped in my own obliqueness. I was lost. I looked up at the clouds, at the tiny tapering ends, almost invisible. Was it an infinite haze of vapour droplets? I mused, watching as the black birds circled the pale billows. Suddenly the sun was gone; a cold hand on the shoulder of the transient warmth. I looked up pondering on how moistness in its most ethereal form could become so dull: how the radiance of the rivers, the …