NYMPHIA'S PAGE

08aI WAS startled as I felt something at my back. I was preparing for the professional exam of anatomy late at night with my table lamp on. I shared the room with two other senior girls. As I turned around, I saw Rita with hair spread all around her face. She had a strange look on her face. Her hand was travelling down my spine. She put her face on my shoulder and tried to touch my face with her cheek. I swirled around and forced her to move away from me and ran out of the room. When I came back later, I found both the girls fast asleep in their own beds. I could neither sleep nor concentrate on my studies. I stayed awake with my book just in front of me. I felt very tired from lack of sleep, frustrated at not being able to finish my work. I woke up with the sound of the girls walking around, slamming the door. My limbs refused to help; the previous night’s experience had left a bad taste in my mouth. Our room had three single beds, two close to one another and the other, mine, lay o...

Love in a time of bigotry Jackie Kabir dwells on the heart and its death Riot Shashi Tharoor Daily Star Books Riot Shashi Tharoor Daily Star Books SHASHI Tharoor's Riot begins with the death of a young American social worker who just “happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.” The writer takes up some excerpts from newspapers at the beginning of the novel and goes on to explain the event from different people's perspectives. It is a very interesting read because there are many different voices describing the event, in the form of letters, statements, passages from notebooks, scrapbooks. The author very aptly narrates the incident of Priscilla Hart's murder which takes place in humdrum of the communal riots in the fictitious city of Zalilgarh. The history of communal riots in the subcontinent dates back to the British period. Shashi Tharoor also portrays a congenial world where Hindus and Muslims worshipped the same saint or warrior before the partition of the ...

http://www.commonwealthwriters.org/translation-hay-festival-dhaka-2013/

9:00am THE day was like any other working day. Walked into the office, greeted everyone and sat at my desk to do my work. 5:00 pm IN THE car on my way back home. The traffic moving at the speed of a snail, sometimes not moving at all. I spied the car next to mine, a couple chatted away. The rickshaw puller behind the car swore at the one in front of him as he pushed the vehicle forward on its front wheel. I looked at my watch, need to get home, take a shower and head back to a meeting that the chairman had called at his place. 7:30pm I WAS waiting for the meeting in my chairman’s living room. Kashem Mia, my cook cum cleaner cum guard called me. I answered my phone. ‘What is it Kashem Mia?’ ‘There is someone named Shila from Canada who wants to see you.’ ‘Well Kashem Mia, I am at the house of my boss, waiting for him and others for a meeting. Tell her I won’t have time today. And Shila..umm I don’t think I know anyone by that name.’ There must have been a bit of annoyance in my voice...

Salt and Saffron; Kartography Kamila Shamsie Kamila Shamsie's second novel Salt and Saffron (2000) is a work on the partition of India in 1947. Dard e Dil, a feudal family suffered during the partition like any other in India and Pakistan. Kamila has brought out the pain, sorrows and love of the triplets Sulaiman, Taimur and Akbar in her writing. Their father, a wealthy land owner thought “bearing the names of great kings would enable his sons to face up to any crisis, but he never paused to think what would have happened if the namesakes Sulaiman the Magnificent, Akbar the Great and Taimur, sometimes called Taimur Lang or Tamburlaine, .... had been born brothers!” In 1938 Taimur disappeared while the boys were being sent to Oxford to get their degrees. He later wrote a letter saying that as they were born the year after the Jalianwalla massacre and “I lack your gift for erasing, nay! Evading history. This is our curse: Akbar and Sulaiman, we are kites that have their strings ...

The twinkling star in the faraway sky  Bright in the night. Was hazy to the sight Tinkled the hearts.  The rains cooled the earth.  Couldn’t quench the desire. Left parched For a thousand years.  Little buds of yearning Was swept away by the gale. Yet the longing haunts To hold To caress.

False Hope The moon beams in the sky Tell me that it has been to where you are.  The wind whispers your name to me. The autumn leaves roll and announce your arrival. Yet I’m not convinced That you will come Once again to soothe my tormented soul;  To kiss away the cascade of tears that roll down.  A missed Beat.  The khol on my eyes won't smudge.  The pleats of my sari won't be out of place. My bangles will make the clinking noise that you so admire.  Even the bindi on my forehead will shine in the sun.  Only my heart will but miss one beat Because you are not there.  It wont matter to the world No it won't. Nothing is indispensable  At least not anymore But my heart will miss a beat thinking of the space that was once yours!  Illusion  Day emerges out of night Night out of day Summer wades into monsoon Autumn departs as harvest announces its arrival. The dry leaves swished away by the wind White ...