Today is another story, not another dayevery day is a story, a narrationof fact, fiction and the mind.a dog whimpers, limps across the road.so does another man, another woman.still, today is different.yesterday had another story, the moonand a sleepless night.…
More Men on My Mind has a very glossy eye catching cover which appeals to the eye. So does the text. Radha Thomas has skilfully treaded the thin line between voyeuristic pleasure and a literary novel. I think she has stumbled…
The old man wasn’t much to look at. Sure he didn’t look his age. He appeared to be in his late fifties though I’d guess he was definitely a decade older than that. No head-turner, that’s for sure. Not with…
There is no love. Just the illusion of love to be used and exhausted till the last dregs then trampled and smote with brickbats, thorns, whatever’s handy. The illusion simpers in the gutter Or an asphalt pavement Till it dries…
Music is a heart touching soul That must be enjoyed on the whole. Music is a divine expression of speech Easy for the musicians to teach. Music is a beautiful art Close to everybody’s heart. Music is the one which…
During the rainy days, my brother could sleep at home; he needn’t go to school, he needn’t go to the cornfields to watch out the parrots. He needn’t even go to the vacant fields to play football. He never…
Every moment Take a magazine (anything will do) and throw it out of your window on its spine; watch: how it sways in the free air… Now! Forget it. Now watch: the flutter of its pages as they take wings…
Every moment a plant loses an argument somewhere, when the stem is misunderstood- its intention, articulated at the pedicel: is plucked. Poet’s Bio: Shriram Sivaramakrishnan is an eternal lover of ‘things in between’, roads less travelled, emotions seldom expressed,…
Short story selected for the 2014 New Asian Writing Short Story Anthology Once upon a time there was a red-shirt boy and a yellow-shirt girl. The boy wore the same red shirt every day. It was made of cotton and…
Short story selected for the 2014 New Asian Writing Short Story Anthology Arunima opened her eyes forcibly and looked at the grandpa clock on the wall. It showed quarter past ten on a bright Sunday morning in the month of…
There is at every alley a twist. Then a turn. The alley leads to a house ( not a home). Cats purr, dogs bark and men and women push shovels, decaying remains of a foreboding truth. The one they know…