Fiction
Selma Carvalho
Notes on a Marriage (Extract)

By Selma Carvalho

The Friday they leave for a weekend in Belgium, Anju discovers Freddo is cheating on her. She doesn’t share her knowledge with him. What she should have said was, ‘Freddo, I’m tired of this shit. This time, I’m leaving.’

Her heart feels like it is going to stop breathing all on its own, distinct from the rest of her. The pain is so intense, she realises it is possible for the rest of her body to survive the carnage, while her heart, expelled from her being like a refugee, would simply die.

Notes on a Marriage (Extract)

My First Christmas

My First Christmas

By Sheela Jaywant

I had not seen Jesus’ photograph in anyone’s house before. He was Goanna’s god; you know, some worship Shiva, others Vishnu, or Hanuman or Manguesh/ Subramanium/ Durga/ whoever. Up on the wall, framed in a picture, like the others, He wore no jewels, no silk clothes, no colourful mukut on His head, had no weapons or musical instruments in His hands, no animals or trees around him. The “photograph” showed His face drooping, a halo around the head, eyes closed; not in good health, I thought. No garlands, no bright flowers, no rice, no coconut, no halad-kukum, no incense burning before Him, nothing cheerful.

They Danced Jhumur that Christmas Night

They Danced Jhumur that Christmas Night

By Nilankur Das

She always remembered the last time she celebrated Christmas, as if the memory itself refused to dissolve into the blur of other nights, as if the cold air of Jharkhand had been preserved in her chest, ready to rise each December when in Goa the Mendonca family draped lights over their balcony and set out cakes heavy with rum and nuts, and she found herself not in the tiled kitchen scrubbing brass or carrying trays but on that hillock far away, with the banyan tree looming and the chapel glowing under the moon

“Christmas Day Arrives” from Notes on a Marriage

“Christmas Day Arrives” from Notes on a Marriage

By Selma Carvalho

Christmas Day arrives—sounds muffled, hands mittened, necks sunk in scarves, the air crisp as a ciderapple. Mother returns from morning church service, singing softly to herself, ‘Joy to the world, the Lord is come…and heaven and nature sing.’ This being their last Christmas at the manor house, Anju has put up the Christmas decorations. The house smells of pine, its telltale needles leading to a green spired-tower

After the Flood

After the Flood

By Saachi D’Souza

Before the city, there was a village: one long road, mango trees, and a house made of clay bricks whose red bled in the monsoon. Ira’s father had called it a home; her mother, a waiting room. When the water overflowed, it came not like a beast but like a large, gripping silence. The water climbed walls, then memory. Her sister’s anklet was found wrapped around a broken window. Her mother’s last word had been “run.” Ira did. At seven, she learnt that not all losses are loud.

The Fear at Merces Junction

The Fear at Merces Junction

By Nilankur Das

He had never planned to go to Belgaum, not really, not in the way that one plans things with intent and purpose, rather it had arrived like all unwanted things arrive, suddenly and through someone else’s mouth, a colleague had said, you should come, it’ll be good for you, it’ll build confidence, and he had nodded the way people do when they’re afraid of disappointing others or more accurately afraid of being seen for who they are, soft and brittle and full of doubt…

A Fisherman's Prayer

A Fisherman's Prayer

By Caroline de Souza

Antonio sat on the edge of his canoe, grey, grizzled and tired from the day’s fishing. He had been at it all morning and the noon-day sun beat down upon him relentlessly. Sweat glistened and shone and poured down his forehead and arms as he wiped himself with his bare clothing. He gazed far out at an endless grey ocean and an endless grey sky that hovered just above it and at a grey line that divided the two. Sometimes, the sea was blueand the sky would change its mood to match the new hue.

The Boatman

The Boatman

By Gail Pinto

Squatting beneath the tea-shop’s overhang, the Boatman watched the two men before him talk.

“Not in this weather,” said the ferry-conductor, the taller of the two. “With the rains, it will swell like a leech, and will make everything more dangerous.”

The shorter man, who owned the tea-shop, shrugged. “Do what you have to, I will be closing. On the radio, they are talking about cyclonic winds. Shee, baba.”

Notes on a Marriage (Extract)

Notes on a Marriage (Extract)

By Selma Carvalho

The Friday they leave for a weekend in Belgium, Anju discovers Freddo is cheating on her. She doesn’t share her knowledge with him. What she should have said was, ‘Freddo, I’m tired of this shit. This time, I’m leaving.’

Her heart feels like it is going to stop breathing all on its own, distinct from the rest of her. The pain is so intense, she realises it is possible for the rest of her body to survive the carnage, while her heart, expelled from her being like a refugee, would simply die.

Statue

Statue

By Riddhima Basiya

Issue no 25

I decided to travel solo this time, yearning to get acquainted with the character of a place and its people rather than instant gratification in a grandiose resort stuffed with superficial objects, but lacking in soul. The web advertisement for mansão de Babolim or Babolim Mansion could not have appeared at a better time. Showing impressive pictures of the mansion’s facades surrounded by lush trees and trimmed hedges, the advert described the place as a ‘heritage homestay with complimentary breakfast and free wi-fi’.

Miracle at Christmas

Miracle at Christmas

By Epitacio Pais
Translated by Paul Melo e Castro

Issue no 24

Conceição had been happy once, but nothing in this world could bring that feeling back. What did return were her memories, of João’s savage kisses, his strange way of loving, animal-like but gentle, harsh but tender, veering between the platonism of words and the basest passion, his magic touch that brought either pain or maddening ecstasy, she was never quite sure which. His velvety words and jealous Cyclopean rages. His blazing eyes and tears of feeble subservience.

The Roast Dinner

The Roast Dinner

By Antara Mukherjee

Issue no 24

A soft, square loaf succumbing to the steely edge of a knife plumped back when Jonny got a call saying that his mother was dying. He kept the phone down and stood staring at the swirl of lemon and orange rinds in the crystal jar that had caught the sun in that upscale London deli. All around him tables were abuzz, with spoons and knives clinking on ceramic plates as waitresses swivelled around pouring coffee with their lipstick smiles. It was Wednesday, a week away from Christmas. He threw his black monogrammed apron and ran his staff through the orders and promotions for the week…

Will it be Christmas, again?

Will it be Christmas, again?

By Edith Melo Furtado

Issue no 24

Mali had a dual personality. No, not the kind that psychology and psychiatry classify as dual, split or whatever. She was perfectly healthy but with an underlying sadness and an overt cheerfulness that could laugh irrepressibly and loved humour. A slender little girl, her sharp features stood out in her thin face. The whiteness of her skin, almost unhealthy, despite the scorching sun over us, made me wonder if she was a descendente (descending from the Portuguese) or a mestiça of mixed parentage.

Sprout

Sprout

By Damodar Mauzo

Issue no 24

While reading a book, I came across a thought. Quite a profound one. That nudging thing would not let me sleep. No matter how hard I tried, it didn’t give up, so I simply decided to sleep with it. When I woke up in the morning, I found that the thought had sprouted, so I rushed with it to my front yard, in order to plant it. However, I knew that the soil in my own yard was not quite productive while my neighbor’s land was very fertile. Besides, he liked gardening. So, I crossed over the fence and carefully planted the tiny sprout there.

Unholy Grounds

Unholy Grounds

By Mrinalini Harchandrai

Issue no 24

On his way to the Apostolic Palace for the ecumenical council meeting, Cardinal Roberto Cacciavillan stopped at the chapel to stand in front of Jesus. A sumptuous summer of colour burst forth in holy ecstasy from the surrounding walls and ceiling, but it was the tableau in front of him that never failed to emboss his soul. Unlike most of the other imagery in the Sistine Chapel, in this particular fresco at the altar, the Saviour looked powerful.

Shambu Enters The Crib Competition

Shambu Enters The Crib Competition

By Pantaleao Fernandes

Issue no 24

“Last Sunday’s collection was rupees…,” announced the parish priest from the lectern, just before the final blessing of the Sunday Mass. The small group of teenagers listened eagerly, awaiting the announcement of the crib competition…the category, and, of course, the prize. “This year we are deviating from the traditional crib contest in your homes. We have decided to have a live crib competition which will be held on our stage here.

The Blank Page

The Blank Page

By Sahib Nazari

Issue no 20
An APWT publication

‘We’re vampires,’ said the young barman when I asked if he had a day job, ‘we work after dark and sleep before sunrise. My wife work day time.’ He brushed his black whiskers as thin as his eyelashes. ‘I work night time.’ His slim eyes enveloped dreams and hope, said he had three children, and his parents share their tiny shack with them.

Empire of One

Empire of One

By Dean Kerrison

Issue no 20
An APWT publication

If I could find the proper words to make sense of history and be on the right side, I’d assemble them in a neat package, use them as bricks to build a structure in which to sit and live, because that’s what we do, build armies, empires and arguments, in essays and on Facebook and Twitter threads, crushing the enemy with swords and guns and ad hominem rhetoric, then instead of following Ghenghis Khan’s horse to chew Eurasia…

Indigenous Studies

Indigenous Studies

By Tim Tomlinson

Issue no 20
An APWT publication

They’d met at Warp and Weft: Re-weaving Indigenous Cultures into the Fabric of the Philippines, a conference hosted by his department. She was from the Cordillera. She had Bontoc blood. When she presented, she wore a traditional costume, the skirt ablaze with orange, red, and black stripes. The poetry was fierce, eloquent, blunt. No white colonialist dick will ever get inside this brown pussy, she read, and a tremor shook the room.