From the Editor’s Desk

At the 49th International Kolkata Book Fair last month, I was happy to note the presence of a robust number of literary magazines. Bengal(in India) boasts of more than 3000 little magazines, most of which are privately funded and run by literary minded friends or communities who felt the need to voice their opinions through a literary magazine. At a time when, like everything else, literature too seems to be devoid of individuality, it is the little magazines that seem to have retained the power to say things differently.

Here there's no hierarchy, no competition for publicity, and literature can be shed of the formality that big publishing often finds itself caved into. Wading through the maze of different stalls, some of which now also bring out literary memorabilia, calendars, posters and even hand drawn sketches- one is filled with a sense of awe and wonder at the sheer scale of this private enterprise really! Another interesting feature of these little magazines is collaborations with writers, especially poets from all over the world, and publishing their work here both in English and Bangla. I found books by American poet Howie Good and South African poet Gary Cummiskey in the stall by 'Graffiti Kolkata', a magazine that was started by Bengali poet Shubhankar Das, highlighting experimental writing from all over the world. Graffiti is now helmed by Das's wife Sabina Pandey, after his passing away.

Sabina spoke to me about other women like her, who were also running magazines. Sanchita from the 'Nari Chetona' little magazine stall spoke to me about the gender related issues tackled by the magazine, their stance and perspective regarding the issues faced by women in the country now. There were other magazines like, 'Ahalya' or 'Shiu', published by women, and dealing with sensitive issues related to gender. In that sense and more, the Little Magazine voice, especially in the vernacular, feels distinctly different, even bold, and definitely experimental.

In preserving this spirit of experimentation, of being able to tell different stories, we bring you another issue of The Bangalore Review dear readers. Enjoy.

Maitreyee Bhattacharjee Chowdhury
Managing Editor, The Bangalore Review

Bianca Alyssa Pérez

In Opposition of Poetic Tradition: A Poet’s Guide to Transcending Eurocentricity

Bianca Alyssa Pérez shows us in this essay how poets Laurie Ann Guerrero, Audre Lorde, and Gris Muñoz use free verse, personal experience, and linguistic subversion to challenge and transcend Eurocentric poetic traditions.

Lakshmi Kannan

A Nod of Veneration

Lakshmi Kannan reviews Anita Nahal’s Animals: Prose Poems on sentiency, decency and indecency.

Param Venkataraman

Notes From Kochi Biennale 2026

This photo essay is compiled by Param Venkataraman reflecting on his visit to the Kochi Biennale 2026.

Non-Fiction

The Sparkle and the Spiral

KC Peek writes a personal memoir alongside an analysis of The Twilight Saga to explore how a bipolar disorder diagnosis, low self-worth, and cultural narratives about romantic love intersected in her life.

TBR Recommends

TBR Recommends – February 2026

This month's selections for TBR Recommends have been curated by Suhail Rasheed.

Non-Fiction

Being True to the Story

Bubba Henson recounts a late-night encounter while waiting tables in 1979 Beverly Hills, serving Christie McVie and Dennis Wilson during what turns out to be an emotional, intimate moment following his marriage proposal.

Poetry

Two Poems by Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri

The Poetry Cast showcases the reading of poetry. In this issue, Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri reads two of his poems.

Poetry

Breath Holding Contest (in Southern Lebanon)

I’ve looked out of rain-washed windows and wept over an impossible love.

Poetry

His Dream

When he climbed upon the bed, sated, summertime; memories of his unusually long life didn’t render him shade —

Poetry

‘e’ things

you have it in your bone, a penchant for relevancy. we talk a, b, c and d. you are a wall, we don’t go to e.

Poetry

On Slogging My Way Through Joyce’s Ulysses

I reread the same paragraph three times each time convinced it’s different

Fiction

A Gentleman’s Ambition

They searched for unholy things that lived amongst the trees. They were born from the very trees they’d be strung up on. A sin birthed smelling of a flower. The mob marched, holding lanterns and axes. They were not people of sin.

Poetry

Two Recommendations For Nothing (In Particulars)

All the pages hidden in all the forests Await a word that will remain When the trees are gone. And now?

Fiction

Whatever Happened to Nuno

Between mouthfuls I inspected Nuno. Short, solid built, thick arms and legs. He looked to be in his late thirties but was dressed young, in bell bottom jeans and a pink and purple paisley long-sleeved shirt. He wore his dark brown hair down to his shoulders. I noticed his eyes darting around, circling the room like a flashlight.

Fiction

The Night in Question

Everything changed with the arrival of Bo. He walked in high-waisted skinny jeans, his curly hair draping over his shoulder and his back. A thin line of mascara on his eyelashes, a tinge of pink-red on his lips. He was twelve years old, five feet eight inches tall and strutting around the village like a whore of Police Bazaar. You knew immediately that was something you couldn’t stomach. You knew how revolting it is for a boy to walk around like that, staring at men like that, talking to other men like that.

Poetry

The Last Morning

When you came downstairs for a glass of water, what were you thinking while standing at the kitchen sink observing the world? What does anyone think in the last moments of their life?

Poetry

Smudge of Fingerprints

Our story is a window. Stroke by stroke my body remembers that life & cries for the missing parts of itself

Poetry

Your Letter Arrives

I am not sad I can’t see the blue of your iris, that a shadow obscures

Fiction

When the World Is Silent

Something was off that morning, that pre-dawn, before I went for a walk and crossed paths with The Man Who Sneezed, but to this day I cannot pinpoint just what was off. Maybe it was the fact that I had cream in my usually black coffee that afternoon, or that my daily conversation with my mother got cut short, or maybe the fact that I was so low that night that I got high so as to forget about the low

Fiction

The Infinite

You see me bite my lower lip. Hear the grating screech of metal on floor as I pull a chair over to sit at eye-level, the way they taught us to in medical school when ‘Delivering Bad News’. This is not the quick “The CT scan of your head looks great!” conversation you were hoping for.

Poetry

The Nightling Apples

and only I know how their hair curls almost scentless around their ears, what kind of silence pleases them.

Poetry

Spring Pastoral

I may be soggy with sleep and the wispy, leftover fragrance of night jasmine, but let me be luminous. Strut with the fawns.

Fiction

When ‘I am’ isn’t enough

A short piece of flash fiction by Azee Amoo

Fiction

Two Honks

Three honks when she left. Two honks for “I’m home.” One honk for each word. It was theirs. “I love you.” “I’m home.” It meant she was safe.

Fiction

Round Earthers

The General broke out into a fit of laughter, picking up the earthen ball of clay. “Oh, la fille,” he laughed, as my family and I remained still. “You are but a commoner, so you do not know better, but this is a holistically inaccurate depiction!” He would not stop laughing. “Come here, child. You see, the Earth is flat, like this table.”

Poetry

For A Contented Violet

Sometimes it takes just the right window. With enough sunshine, and not too much water.