I would have sat you down and explained, poured
you a mug of coffee and placed it on
that aqua-painted table we bought at
the thrift store that winter in Alaska
Bare every women and rip her on the streets,
And spare not even your mother, own
The pound for murder lingers no more,
Woman carrying basket of pineapple
Atop her head, hair like an Arabesque carpet
Woven with a million coarse black threads
Every month, The Reading Room showcases a short story, or excerpts of a book, from some of the greatest writers the world has ever seen.
Arvind Radhakrishnan & Sudeep Reguna interviews noted writer and Jnanpith winner, Prof. U. R. Ananthamurthy
Rini Barman pays tribute to Khagen Mahanta, the Assamese folk singer who recently passed away
The azaleas died every winter, and every spring Asha would extract the brittle bushes and plant a new set in the same bed. Her husband,…
I suppose that it seems rather extraordinary that I have spent my entire life surrounded by stories but have never before been tempted to pen…
They pulled Leona away from Ted’s open casket and accused her in loud angry whispers of laughing during her husband’s viewing. Leona’s cardigan was bunched…
children who had eaten breakfast
with their mothers took their
supper with their ancestors.
There is no relief, no getting over this heat,
so I settle down and stare into the sky
I took you out to dinner to celebrate
Your upcoming Rehab stay.
I took you out to dinner to comfort
You when you missed the train.