Krishna sat in the kitchen, chatting with mother with his sister in his lap. Father called him and asked him to run to the shop and buy cigarettes. Krishna remained indoors most of the time, these days. He was reluctant…
I was twelve or thirteen at the time. A young man used to come to our house for meals once a week. I do not know where he is now or what he is doing. Nevertheless I have this one…
The poultry in front of Paidamma’s hut is twittering kuckoroo ko noisily. Paidamma is shooting away a volley of insults without mentioning anyone in particular. The darybreak sets off along with her holler. Bright sunrays are dispersing with sleazy giggles…
There was no reason for me to recall a fifty year-old story if it were not for the pellichuupulu[1]. we had scheduled for my granddaughter, Silpa. The groom, his father and mother came to our house on the said day.…
After arriving in the U.S. in 1973, I became intensely aware of the incongruities on the surface in the two cultures—American and Indian—and the commonalities beneath. Hit by culture shock, and encouraged by my American friends, I launched the website,…
In a couple of essays, Narasimha Sastry discussed history and historical fiction at length. He put forth enormous amount of information in support of his theory that our way of studying our history if faulty. In the process he also…
Nori Narasimha Sastry (1900-1978) started writing poetry even as a child and produced voluminous amount of literature in almost all genres—poetry, plays, short stories, novels, and literary criticism for over six decades. He received the title kavi samrat [emporer of…
by Nidadavolu Malathi. Dog wonderedWhy are there so many poems About dogs Pink chalk wondered Why there are none About him Here, pink chalk, a poem about a dog. –Anonymous. I saw this poem on the sidewalk during my evening…