The artwork by Adeela Khan is a sketch of hands - open or closed, formed into fists or turned palm up. Bright green, pink, blue, orange and yellow daubs of color are behind the hands, mostly in the top part of the work.

Issue Two

Included in this issue

Ports by Bassam Sidiki

| Essay

Intercity Ghosts by Ibrahim Tanweer

| Poetry

وقت کے سرد خانے کی سازش by Waqas Manzoor

| Poetry

The Marchers Have Reached the Capital by Sakina Hassan

| Poetry

فیصلہ by Syed Hur Abbas

| Fiction

I Like the Texture of Things by Uswa Maryam

| Fiction

داستان گوئی : A Conversation with Hammad Rind by Bareerah Y. Ghani

| Interview

From the archive

The photo by Aamna Waseem is of a variety of autumn leaves submerged in water, in colors of yellow, brown, maroon and rust.

Essay | After Winter
by Samee Ahmad

Time marches on in Europe. And in my apartment in New York. But I know it stands still in my grandfather’s room. Silent, except for the click-clack of his alarm clock. It’s the least charming room in the 2-story house he, ironically, had built on Ataturk Block. He wore all white in those days. Cream, beige, off-white.

The photo is from a vehicle, most likely a rickshaw, on a road, in broad daylight. On the left is a low raised wall running along the road, the word Kaamil in Urdu painted on a part of it, large green trees beyond the wall.

Fiction | Aunty
by Nilofar Iqbal, translated by Amna Chaudhry

She cackled and gave me a hug, clearly pleased by my comment. Ducking into the nearest fast food place, we ordered coffee and spent an hour catching up. I hadn’t seen Raufa in years and we were now well into our thirties.

The photo is of raindrops on a car windshield on a rainy night. Through the blur of the rain water streetlights can be seen.

Essay | The Road to Closure
Roha Arif

I had two reasons for this: she had been gone for two years, and I felt that she was the only older sibling who might actually believe me. So I wrote her a letter, telling her everything.

Poetry | God Rides the Subway on Sundays
by Eleen Raja

I always dreamed of being a home
like all poets for things
that we may never hear outside of water
Could a Tadpole define death?

Poetry | Origin Story
by Javeria Hasnain

All origin stories contain indigeneity
& indigeneity eludes me.

Our people call each other muhajir.
(I am an immigrant in my own city.)

Poetry | کہنے اور کرنے کو جہاں جی میں
شاعرہ: مریم نوید

کہنے اور کرنے کو جہاں جی میں
ارمانوں کی جگہ کہاں جی میں


Poetry | a defiance
by Hananah Zaheer

i claim to write no ghazals (i am not you) because my language, once removed, is stilted (i am told), a confluence of consonants at the ends of my teeth (though i speak this fiction often), and because the rules (those puritanical edicts) have limited my refrain-oh love, oh country, oh my people, oh

Poetic Renditions

Translations of a poem into a different language by various writers

column 3

Urdu to English
ہمیشہ قتل ہو جاتا ہوں میں ۔ جون ایلیاء

notes and translations by Amama Bashir, Javeria Hasnain, Shandana Minhas, Yusra Amjad and Ayesha Manazir Siddiqi

notes on translation

renditions circle
artwork by Rabia Malik
words and photos by readers about spaces and existence in those spaces.

from August 2024

Art
Imam-e-Har Zamaaan
by Balach Khan

Art
Untitled
by Izza Ali Khan
“This is a view from an overhead bridge outside my university.”

Untitled Artwork

Shandana Minhas speaks to writers, artists, absurdists. listen to episodes here.

April 29, 2024 with Mo Naqvi

March 25, 2024 with Farah Ali

Chowk is open for submissions of poetry, essays, photography and art.

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