La Gorda and the City of Silver

I. I was born on a Wednesday, in middle of a chapuzón. The sudden squall of sky water bears little resemblance to a thunderstorm – it’s more like a vertical flood, though very brief. I considered Chapuzón for my luchador name – I had poured out of my mother with...

Priya Sharma: Egg 

I consider my egg; its speckled pattern, its curves, strange weighting and remarkable calcium formation that’s both delicate and robust. It hurts but I’m determined. The old hag promised. I put my egg inside me. — Hot water soothes my skin. It plasters my hair to my...

Ng Yi-Sheng: No Other City

Listen: next Monday at 4.30pm, Singapore will disappear. The entire island, its earth and earthworks, its rivers and reservoirs, its megamalls and museums, will vanish, poof, like so much gun smoke. Its flora and fauna too: its orchards and orioles, its rain trees and...

Isha Karki: Rooting 

Branches jut towards us, splinters scrape our skin and sap leaks from bark split open, coating the curves of our shoulders, pooling in the dips of our clavicle. The forest anoints us. We can’t see through the curtain of leaves; we part our way with batons. A decade...

Anil Menon: Shit Flower

In its underground cavern, cathedral-like with its glittering spears of light and rust-stained barrel vaults, Goose continued to do what it had done for over five decades: route sludge water in the temple city of Mumbai. It was 3:04 AM IST, 2089 AD. Goose cared little...

Dean Francis Alfar: The New Daughter

When the boy inevitably grew up, married and moved away with his own growing family, the toymaker decided to make a girl. He did it this time in secret, afraid of what his neighbors would think, fearing the potential unjust accusation of prurience when all he wanted...

David S. Golding: Give and Receive

The school grounds held few secrets, for they swirled with voices eager to tell and retell, but beyond the outside wall and across the train tracks there was a hidden place. Ana found it one day after classes. She was on her way to buy coconut oil for her mother when...

Amal Singh: Rudali

They have come to weep for those who can’t. Ramsingh Chaudhury’s haveli smells of cinnamon and incense, charred wood and pine oil, age and death. Ten women gather around the zamindar’s body lying still in the center of the hall, all in white, their eyes blank, their...

Indra Das: Excerpt from The Devourers

My part in this story began the winter before winters started getting warmer, on a full-moon night so bright you could see your own shadow on an unlit rooftop. It was under that moon—slightly smudged by December mist clinging to the streets of Kolkata—that I met a man...