From the Editor’s Desk

Autumn is for white grass from Satyajit Ray films, for spectacular colour, for adrak wali chai on the dusty roads that lead to the sensuous architecture of Khajuraho. Autumn is a plum moon on Kartik Purnima, a song and the resurrection of one's soul, as you travel through the length and breadth of your country. Autumn is in its untouched wild beauty in corners unknown, and the sorrow of seeing tribal artists beg on the streets. Autumn is for grey, for resilience, for hope before the sun sets, for evening lamps by the Narmada, and sunset on marble rocks. Autumn is for Digambar saints, who walk naked, for the dance on the rocks of Mahabalipuram, and the rising temperature in the seas. Autumn is for Kaveri, for walking on streets laden with leaves, autumn is for Sangeet in tiny sallu mandapas in Hampi, of Khol in the eyes and Mogra in the hair.

And before Autumn gives way to the sobriety of winter, find here, a reflection and a lilt. For literature as beautiful and reflective, TBR brings you a delicious mix- We have Alison Morse's sensitive poems on the subject of garment factory workers, an intriguing fiction selection with pieces like Two Stories, an essay from Nicole Yurcaba- discussing War, Grief, and the Ukrainian Independence, in her sensitive reading of various writers, and an interview with Sufia Khatoon on her latest book Germination.

Enjoy dear readers,

Spread the love- Read, Share, Write!

Maitreyee Bhattacharjee Chowdhury
Managing Editor, The Bangalore Review

Specials

TBR Interviews Sufia Khatoon

Our editor interviews Sufia Khatoon about her poetry collection, Germination.

Poetry

Four Poems by Alison Morse

Alison Morse weaves a heartbreaking narrative of garment factory workers’ life through the scope of Human sufferings, paved with lack of accountability by owners and substandard working conditions.

Fiction

Westinghouse

I have been pigging out on Oreos lately. They aren’t good for me. My doctor warns me that my nocturnal habits are wrong. Too many snacks. Too little sleep. I quote that boy-devil, Bart Simpson, and tell him not to have a kitten.

Featured Works

Poetry

Somewhere by my grandparents house; strawberries from the heart

Better still, there are Oranges in Europe and Grapes in South Melbourne and A man from the Northern suburbs with a belt that Wears studs and a tattoo I know better than to Question, who Offers me a coffee with half a spoon of sugar.

Non-Fiction

Little friends, we made in God’s own country

The author and his wife dive deep inside the tranquility promised by God's own Country.

Poetry

I Had a Hard Time Identifying Myself Drowned

I thought I was Orpheus’s head floating down the Hebrus still singing, but I was not singing—

Non-Fiction

When You Think of Tolstoy

The author's friendship with Ira, a Ukrainian, whom she had met on a Facebook page for animal lovers, turns into something far more than mere friendship as Russia wages War on Ukraine.

Fiction

Two Stories

I was an only child. Have no merry assumptions. I was not an only child by design. Can a girl ever be an only child by choice? It was the era of death and disease. None of amma’s children survived to become my brothers and sisters.

Poetry

To Be Dirty

A teacher once asked if I lived on the dirty side of the Philippines, I had to think what she meant—if she meant a part easier to ignore homeless kids on the streetsides with cardboard blankets curled up like street dogs; if dirty meant poor meant eating rice with soy sauce ‘cause mama couldn’t afford meat;

Fiction

Dogs Chasing Cars

Another car goes by; this time, the puppies move together toward the shiny wheel and break off in sync like a flock of geese. The leader sends out signals, and they move in unison. Finally, they stop and stare at me. I would take one back home with me if I could. They were that cute.

Poetry

Listening to Louis Armstrong

Flowers I can’t name stretch over the lip of a windowsill to stare into the swooning sun. I will not sing, but I am tempted.

Non-Fiction

War, Grief, and Ukrainian Independence

In Conversation with Oksana Zabuzhko’s “One Hundred Years of Solitude, or the Importance of a Story” and Olesya Khromeychuk’s A Loss

Poetry

A Pocket full of Posies

the spider climbs the spout the wheels on the bus go round Jack gets the magic beans and I say ding dong we are all scrambling out of the frying pan where dozens of eggs were broken to make incredible inedible omelets

Poetry

March

What I recall from night is tangled in the uneasy rising of a new day. No need to fiddle in my sleep