THE SHELF / 6 books that I read at the end of last year… I hated 5 of them

The 77-year-old is the first author of Kannada-language literature to receive the prestigious literary award for translated fiction

The moon is a cheeseball,  Cratered, yellow, and huge like your eyeballs 

I rush to the mirror. My gums are pristine, no wound, no sin. But when I look back at the fruit, the truth reveals itself: the flesh is blackened, writhing with tiny, hungry mouths. The rot has teeth

Moving mindlessly and / Etching every alley along the way / With verses devoted to you

Now, an automated metro-rail glides silently through the city. Conversations have become clipped, calculated. Efficiency replaces spontaneity. They call it peace. Rahim calls it absence.

The event commenced with a promise of memorable tales about memory, femininity, modernity, identity, and more

In a world where smart TVs, touchscreen tablets, and mobiles are always within reach, I feel grateful that my daughter, who is almost five and a half, often brings me books and asks me to read them to her for a quick, fun storytime

Now, two decades later, the question lingers: Did "Guts" really cause waves of fainting spells, or did the legend grow legs of its own?

She is the first writer of Bangladeshi origin to win the regional prize

A poetry reading and discussion session on writer and poet Naseef Faruque Amin’s poetry collection, Tamadi (Boitoroni, 2025)

I couldn’t help but think of the cultural significance of the word “ma” in our own society today; it is lead-heavy with meaning and so frequently invoked—from commonplace addresses of tender respect for women to motherly depictions of the landscape of Bengal in artworks, songs, and films

Throughout my school years, Ammu would assign a different writer for me to read during each vacation

In a lecture, Rabindranath proclaimed, “I hope that some dreamer will spring from among you and preach a message of love and therewith, overcoming all differences..."

Like little boys racing against red-orange hues against dark, dark blue to spread the day’s news;

For all that melts in this month of fallen petals rising, you’re a paperclip, hanging on the edge of my bookshelf, bent into a heart.

Faiqa Mansab’s second novel, The Sufi Storyteller, is a quiet triumph—both elegiac and urgent, intimate and expansive. It arrives as a natural evolution from her acclaimed debut, This House of Clay and Water (Penguin Random House India, 2017), and yet it stands apart, not merely in ambition but in execution. Where the former was steeped in the politics of desire and gender within Lahore’s elite and unseen spaces, The Sufi Storyteller ventures across continents and metaphysical thresholds to bring forth something more elusive: the sacred, storied terrain of the inner world.

These decisions hint at an implicit belief that certain genres or readerships require the exclusion of certain genders, whether due to artistic limitations, market considerations, or adherence to established genre conventions.

Other Pulitzer Prize winners in the arts included Percival Everett in the Fiction category for his novel 'James', Branden Jacobs-Jenkins in the Drama category for his play 'Purpose', and Marie Howe in the Poetry category for her collection, 'New and Selected Poems'

31 years old moss-covered headstone

Pride of place above the fireplace in the sitting room of our little house in distant Blighty is a painting from North Bengal.