I cannot write. For a month, it lingers. Every morning, I sit in front of my laptop and hope to write something new, something noble. But nothing comes out. Not a word, not a sentence. As if the sea of creativity has dried up.

The fire of Muspelheim rages In the dark alleys where for ages Ancient arts of beauty have been stockpiled By the masters of money and mind.

Abdul Quadir (1906-84) was a poet-prosodist, essayist, editor, journalist, literary critic, bibliophile and collector of literary works. He

The last email that I got from the organizers of the South Asian Festival of Sufism and Buddhism (the word Buddhism continued to be

Like it or not, the sun has all these rising points,

Morning walks, or rather ambles, tip-toeing towards the rest of the day. One's day gathers pace seemingly hour by hour after one

A morning perennially haunted by the memories of lovemaking

Translation studies is a newly emerging area of interest among academics and practitioners of English language and literature. Living

Does a piece of writing have a sex? Not really! It perhaps has a gender, which in French is genre. When it comes to distinguishing one

A tiger kept prowling around a village, and naturally, the people became frightened. The cows, the calves and even men were mauled

The late great Sir Terry Pratchett was a force to be reckoned with in the domain of fantasy novels. While his contributions to the world of literature are innumerable, Pratchett's life encompassed a lot more than just the art of writing books.

At the noon Of 21st February

Sometimes I wonder what life would be like if I were to subscribe to one particular language that didn't have any link with my roots. One particular language, which I didn't know like the back of my hand.

The British Marin camped here in the dead of night when people were in deep sleep. There was no human residence here back then; only lines of upward looking trees graced the vicinity.

Glancing nervously at the dogs that lay basking in the winter sunshine, I tried to move ahead with confidence, telling myself that the venerable Tollygunge Club would never allow their clientele anywhere near animals that hadn't had their rabies shots.

It was a hard fall. Kheya was astounded—not because she fell, but because of the person she fell for. The man was a magician of words, with a thick beard and a thin voice and was about one

I have but one life

Ismat was very irritated at my suspicions. She lectured me on how terrible it was to guess and gossip about others without actually hearing anything with my own ears. I was

Who says words are like butterflies? I see invisible shackles.

The moment I saw your eyes in the crimson glow