The place had no soul or spirit left, and it was evident in the colourless walls, the unclean glasses, the empty eyes of the server who left me a menu card.

“Can’t a man even get payesh and shemai on Eid in this house?” Altaf Shaheb screamed from the drawing room while watching the news, “There used to be so much joy in this house. It used to feel like Eid. But your mother has grown so sluggish now, Saadat! She used to be such a good cook. Our neighbours back in the old neighbourhood were crazy about your mother’s chicken bhuna. But now I can’t even get a plate of payesh the night before Eid.”

When DC Clements misses, by just a few hours, the opportunity to recover the abducted Kylie—who was being held prisoner by an unknown captor in the initial period after she disappeared—the police officer becomes obsessed with finding out what actually happened to the missing woman.

Suddenly, the shadow became larger on the wall. At that exact moment, something felt heavy on Farid’s chest–and got heavier by the minute. Everything was still, and in that silence, a silhouette slowly grew over Farid’s  body. 

The trader decides not to return home. He sends a message to his wife: "Do not worry about me. I am going to the capital of Kishkindha with Devraj horse. I will return with a sack full of money in 15 days."

The farm had transformed overnight into a spinning wheel of fear and intrigue. The mother cows' hushed grunts weaved an elaborate tapestry of tales.

I’d never felt sadder at the prospect of not being a part of someone else’s story.

The sky to the west and overhead is mired in darkness; but to the east, light is gleaming out like a jasper stone, as clear as crystal.

The infallible whiteness of the walls, the omnipresent smell of disinfectants, and the fields of artificial grass come back to me. Swimming before me are visions of smiling children and the legions of overworked childcare professionals constantly at their service. Every blink threatens to permanently relocate me to their world of ceaseless laughter.

Hannah's protagonist Freddie is attempting to make progress on her novel by working at the Boston Public Library, when she—along with three of the people she is sharing a table with—are transfixed by the sound of a woman screaming somewhere in the Library.

Over the two-week period, six original short stories by emerging South Asian writers will be published on Himal Southasia’s website

Although the story doesn’t talk about how this particular cafe became a time-travelling spot to begin with, reading through to the last page made me feel that the café was always there-since the beginning of time.

It’s God’s funny way of reminding me that all that is received is a gift that is broken.

Perhaps Martin Amis’s works do not grab me for the most part because it veers too far away from the humanism of, say, Saul Bellow—a writer Martin greatly admires and has written about extensively.

Institutional racism in colonies, migration, flawed anti-monarchy sentiments stemming from personal vendettas, and the need for rebellion permeate the lives of these characters.

There is an element of the unexpected in the twinning of fiction and ecology. A sense of unease of sorts exists in the pairing together of fiction, a form of narrative that is untrue, with the imminent ecological disaster, an environmental inevitability that is true.

Based on anecdotal evidence, complaints about the genre being “pure escapism”, “childish” and “uninteresting” are common. There are also reviews which accuse fantasy literature of being “formulaic”, “out of touch” and even “outdated”.

The sun goes down every day when it’s meant to be

A familiar voice echoed behind her as she was about to leave.

You must read like a reader and not like an academic student. If the book you’re translating is a general book, it’s going to be read by readers. Intelligent readers perhaps, but readers nevertheless.