Malaika had many lovers, says the Narrator of this story, as she watches on...
This story is part of the collection Bombay Hangovers, available on Amazon.
From the poet and storyteller Rochelle Potkar.
In which the discerning literary pundit (Ra Sh) Ravi Shanker N reviews Bombay Hangovers, featured in The Compulsive Reader.
In Garble, an artist makes a Faustian bargain.
Dear Friends,
The Punch Magazine’s Poetry special 2022 showcases new poems by 40 poets from the Indian subcontinent/diaspora, prefaced by notes and essays on their poetics, curate by Shireen Quadri - founder, publisher Punch Magazine.
Death itself recollects a memorable moment in 1560 in its life when things turned a little different.
A bewildered family man continues to live in a haunted house in an unknown place and time, as his wife, kids, and dog disappear, one by one.
My poem 'Bedrock' appears in the Antonym Magazine. Thank you Sonnet Mondal for inviting it.
Fanny? Where is she?
“Poet Rochelle Potkar’s first collection of short fiction includes 15 stories set in Mumbai and one set in Goa. They uncover the inner lives of characters while revealing the author’s knack for fashioning intricate plots and dissecting complex relationships”
“Human irrationality and dichotomy drive me.”
Akila G, poet and haibuneer, posted her review on Amazon India.
I met Mrs. Kumar twice in my life.The first when I was an administrative assistant and she, the wife of a man who had climbed the slippery corporate ladder to become Head of HR. She looked resplendent in her aubergine sari of gold borders, and wore heavy jewelry, as if it was a wedding and not a corporate dinner. She banded with the wives of other directors and was inclusive of me too in a mirthful way, like people are when good fortune shows upon them. She spoke about her car and how it glided over roads. “Reminds me of a plane just about to take off,” her eyes brightened. She spoke of her children’s achievements, exotic holidays, the number of support staff she had hired.All through the party, she lovingly looked at Mr. Kumar, who with the gang of equal men was getting one notch closer to unconsciousness, over whiskey.equinox–fitting my desiresto yoursYears later, when I meet Mrs. Kumar, she is the wife of a retired director. Her sari is sober to go with the grey of her hair. I walk up to her, half-expecting to hear her tales. She greets me absent-mindedly and says they have traveled in a cab. “Better not to have a car - the servicing, the chauffeur . . . so much expenditure. Cabs are the easiest to hire.” She shrugs and stays in the outer orbits of the ladies’ group, savoring each piece of finger food making their rounds on silver plates.She doesn’t watch out for Mr. Kumar who is still losing consciousness over whiskey with the boys - the new horses of the stable - one of them being my husband.summer attire–the second inningsof our relationships
Memory is… images of a prepubescent boy cycling home,
Khairlanji. The darkness of humanity percolates into corners over the skins of the mother and her daughter, those sons, the father.
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