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The Story In The Middle: Brooklyn 1996 | Leslie-Ann Murray

When I was young, my mother used to tell me that she was given the shittest end of the stick at birth, and as a result, her life would always follow the same path. So we can start this story anywhere in my mother’s life and the conclusion will be the same. When my mother stole my identity and left my brother Christopher and me to fend for ourselves in Trinidad, while she lived the supposed American Dream, I realized she told me about her shitty life because she was preparing me for my future. The day my mother vanished with my passport and documents to America, I started engaging in the art of - dis-remembering where I worked on forgetting my past, people from the past, and any feelings that would bring me down to my last skin. I curated a surface existence, full of quibbles about the weather, celebrities, local politics, and the latest trends. I’d post on social media about my happy childless marriage, share funny memes, and repost my husband and my vacation pictures we took three years ago in Paris. Side note: Brahim and I took that vacation because our marriage was failing again and it was another attempt to save the dredges of our love. Three years later, we are still paying off our credit cards from that vacation, and I have quietly moved into our spare bedroom. [Read the rest...] “The Story In The Middle: Brooklyn 1996 | Leslie-Ann Murray”

Mathai’s tryst with the wild | Sangeetha G

During the 1940s, many Syrian Christian families of Travancore were migrating to the sparsely populated forest lands of the Western Ghats. Sons of larger families, who were not satisfied with their meagre share of family property, felt the need to replant themselves in greener pastures. Syrian Christians then measured their success and achievement in life with the land they owned and with each added acre of land, their pride too swelled- the pride of having achieved something on their own and pride of being a respectable member of the parish community. Churches and the clergy weighed their members in terms of their wealth, which was measurable by the land they owned. The pomp of the parish church was directly proportional to the wealth of its members, as it was run with mandatory collections from the members. They had to part with a certain percentage of their earnings regularly to the church. If delayed, the church also had its parish “members” who would visit the houses and take away the church’s share of the farm produce. Needless to say, the wealthy always received better treatment from the clergy.  [Read the rest...] “Mathai’s tryst with the wild | Sangeetha G”

Biryani Blues | Sarthak Sharma

Some said that Saleem put afeem (opium) in his biryani. Rumour or not, all of our townsfolk had, at some point in their lives, believed it. Once, after getting into a verbal spat with Saleem’s son, my father announced confidently that he had heard from a villager that another villager had seen Saleem pour afeem in the biryani, and that from then on we were to eat at Kareem’s instead. [Read the rest...] “Biryani Blues | Sarthak Sharma”

Him | Pranav Shrivastava

This happens to be a new year party. Everyone here is intoxicated. The night is as young as ever and the songs playing on the speakers are rad and loud. No one can hear what the other person is saying. The disco lights planted on the wall are near blinding to the eyes. The party is as lively as it ever will be. All of this is enough for someone to socialize but not for him. He looks around. He is not particularly handsome, his hands and legs are too thin, his face is a little small but he has big, round, beautiful eyes. He happens to be an introvert but more importantly, also happens to be hungry. He looks around the room. [Read the rest...] “Him | Pranav Shrivastava”

A Nice Man | Nalini Rao

Shachi never trusted Ma’s choice in men, always sensing conflict whenever the subject was broached. Ever since Ma had resigned herself to her daughter turning 28, a suitable enough age according to her relatives, she had been urging her only daughter to get married. But there was a constant wrangle between wanting her daughter to have a companion, and the risk of losing someone she considered to be her only support in a house full of unsupportive men. Shachi didn’t like any of the men her mother recommended. [Read the rest...] “A Nice Man | Nalini Rao”

Good People | Upasana

“We are good people,” my boyfriend says, his voice laced with hurt and just a pinch of anger. “We haven’t even asked for a dowry.” I nod. I agree, they are, and they haven’t.  I am staring at the plate of half-eaten Hakka noodles in front of me. My fingers are busy making tiny shreds of the thin paper napkin that had been a part of a swan’s plumage till very recently, till I had cruelly plucked it out and decided to desecrate it. It’s something I do when I am upset, destroy things. [Read the rest...] “Good People | Upasana”

Comic Book Collector | John Tavares

In Yonge-Dundas Square downtown, Dan observed Lori seated in a comfortable lotus position, sketching, drawing, and even painting, reading from an art history book, or a volume or paintings of photographs, taking photographs with her camera, but he didn’t recognize her from their hometown. Lori sometimes saw him in the square, wearing a suit, reading the business section of the Globe and Mail, or the Wall Street Journal, drinking a takeout coffee from 7-11 or Starbucks. Then she did her research on social media and asked to meet him. [Read the rest...] “Comic Book Collector | John Tavares”

Inverted Justice | Kamalini Natesan

“Shanta, don’t worry about it, I will take care. You leave!” Misra called out to his wife in a gentle tenor belying his inner turmoil. Shanta was putting her lunchbox together. The husband of many years had brewed the morning tea, which they both sipped quietly in the verandah. It was the month of April, a year after Shanta had made it rain, as Juhi, their daughter reminded the couple on occasion. [Read the rest...] “Inverted Justice | Kamalini Natesan”