Raising the profile of South Asian writers since 2007
Rukmini wills herself to stay lying on the sofa. Om, Om Shanti, she chants. The ghosts dance, screaming in a frenzy, wild shapes tearing at her eyelids, at her mind. Voices calling out as if to say, ‘Come with us. We have come from far, we will take you away. Come….’ As if a great …
Ever since the email went out at the end of November, food was all anyone could talk about. From: Culture Comms Subject: Important Staff Event – International ‘Bring a Dish’ Lunch Day! Date: 30 November 2017 at 10:00:54 GMT To: allstaff@mb.com On the 12th December @ noon, please bring in an international dish to share. Let’s celebrate the diversity of our teams …
“I’m in the department till twelve. You can come by eleven.” When I had texted Dr Verma the previous night, I knew this was my only chance if I wanted to meet her. I had chosen a Thursday for my meeting. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, the social work department had fewer people than usual; students …
by Farhana Khalique She bit into the peppermint too soon. And then she knew. Her eyes widened, darting around the carriage. A suit, backpacks, a pushchair. Why were they so normal, when everything had changed? She looked at the wrinkled wrapper in her hands, blue already bleeding into white. All because she hadn’t waited, just …
by CG Menon It isn’t until she gets to the bus stop that Malathy knows her feet are wrong. They’re aching a little and bulging from their lace-up shoes under the hem of her sari, but that’s not it. Perhaps they’re just tired; she’s already trotted along miles of vinyl corridors behind the hospital tea …
by Shibani Lal Revathi makes herself a cup of tea. She rarely drinks tea nowadays, preferring the bitter hit of an espresso each morning. However today she feels – she doesn’t quite know what she feels, but she knows that the hiss of the coffee machine will not comfort her. She glances around her kitchen. …
Never in a sari. On Sundays she’d always change first. Back from mass, she’d unwind the six yards of silk or chiffon, replacing it with her baggy black cotton tracksuit and her brown pumps. Even in those unflattering clothes, her black eyes and quiet grace shone through. Read more of The Gardener by Jocelyn Watson, The Asian Writer Short Story Prize 2013 Winner
The Asian Writer Short Story Competition – Runner Up Angela O’ Connor was the Virgin Mary. Everyone knew it was true. Something about the neon scrunchie with black dots that held up her hair. And her lips. You only saw lips like that in my sister’s magazines. Bliss or Mizz. Those ones where they told you …
Amma was ritualistically watering her plants, which included fighting with pigeons and making small talk with squirrels. The rodent droppings never bothered her but she would get colossally upset with bird shit. I think it was probably the unusual mixture of white and green or maybe it was just the quantity. Watering a plant was …
Seductively, she whispers a familiar melody into his ear, her physical presence enclosing him in a cocoon of warmth and security. He tilts his head to one side and silently listens as she speaks to him, entrusts him with the burden of her chest, relates to him enchanting tales of glories bygone, tragic losses and …