Instituted by Surina and Manhad Narula in 2010, the US $25,000 DSC Prize for South Asian Literature is one of the most prestigious international literary awards specifically focused on South Asian writing. It is a unique and coveted prize and is open to authors of any

Though I called out to the shopkeeper a couple of times, he didn’t heed me. He was too busy rearranging the products on the rack. As I was waiting for him to respond, a middle-aged beggar woman turned up on my left and begged for money from me. At first, I

The crimson hue is still in the morning sky.

I am sure it was sometime in 1965 that a classmate at St. Gregory’s, Muhammad Ali Rumee, piqued my curiosity by describing a new movement in letters launched by some friends of his elder brother.

In a soggy London street he stood, shaking his dreadlocks like wind-struck branches of a willow and moving his weathered bow on the shiny strings of his broken violin.

This is a story without a beginning or an end. The story does not even relate to events that one can see. And yet, in some sense, there is a beginning and there is an end.

It’s late June and it’s hot. It’s nine in the morning and it’s hot. It’s so hot in Dhaka that after a while feelings turn somewhat numbed, vision blurred. And taking advantage of the overcrowded vehicle, when a guy pinches Shila Chakma’s buttock after a futile attempt to grope her breast, she wants to scream: Stop it, you pervert.

We could have never imagined that we would get Topu back. And yet he has returned and is amidst us. It is mind-boggling – the person whom we had seen for the last time at the High Court intersection,

There the tree tom-tomed its existential glory on the bank of the small river at a distance from the village.

Had I but an eternal life (“Ananta Jibon Jodi Pai Ami”)

Just as Azhar Kha was about to leave the room putting his shirt on, Lily made an entrance, “Baba, you promised!”

Rehana takes hesitant steps towards her house. Her Niqab renders the landscape a transparent shade of black smoke.

I am Ranire, the serpent woman who lives in the rubbles of Al-Hammar Palace. Yes, you heard right—the accursed and legendary half woman and half snake that wanders in the desert land of Ukh-Tarar.

“CHOOSE YOUR CHARACTER”—the instruction pops up on the brand new 32-inch curved monitor’s screen. “Hmm… Which one? Which one should I select?” Genghis Khan murmurs.

I, an itching palm? —William Shakespeare

Krishnakali I call her Krishnokoli, my dark blossom,

It’s that time of the year again, when we offer an array of literary items -- short fiction, non-fiction and poetry.

If I die, leave the balcony open.

Saturday morning: on the brick plaza at the corner of Fourth and Catheri

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