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Fiction | لانگ ویکنڈ
by Abdul Sami
میرے تو جیسے ہاتھوں کے طوطے اڑ گئے۔ میرے ذہن سے یہ بات نکل گئی تھی کہ مجھے شان کے ساتھ ملتان جانا تھا، اور اس نے بھی پوچھنا گوارا نہ کیا۔
These were novelistic video games, and before their dialogue came to be performed by voice-actors, it took quite a lot of reading to appreciate what was happening in the story. Naturally, the less immediate action and the way the storytelling functioned meant that Final Fantasy did not enjoy the popularity of Tekken in Pakistan.
Poetry | Jealousy for Breakfast
by Hibah Shabkhez
Obscured by thick gilt-crusted glass
Obsessed with cheekily winking bulbs,
Glowering at their insouciant modernity while
Ringing from their unrelenting light –
کل دوپہر کی تاریکی میں
میں نے سیاہ کینوس پر سفید خون مل دیا
Poetry | Amaltas Are Blooming
by Mishal Zahoor
In that moment, I am smaller
than I have ever been.
A glimpse of fierce red gulmohar,
centuries-old banyan trees
If you had known Murtaza, surely you would have thought of him as someone with a resilient disposition. There was integrity too; as I tell you his story you might even detect self-respect. Perhaps you think it’s a bizarre notion, even unpalatable: children as little people with personhood, dignity, and idiosyncrasies.
Interview | Between Places : A Conversation with Sayera Anwar
by Rabia Malik
At first, when I was away from my geography, I struggled to find my voice. I didn’t know what to talk about, what to explore, or how to connect my experiences to my art.
Interview | Geographies : A Conversation with Feryal Ali-Gauhar
by Farah Ali
To find my tribe elsewhere was great. I am more at home with people with whom I can have conversations, and I’ve found them mostly outside of the default idea of home.
From the archives
Essay | Ports by Bassam Sidiki
A handsome attendant rolled me toward my uncle’s SUV. When I had settled into the passenger seat, he said with some emotion in his voice and some pity in his eyes, “Best of luck to you.”
Fiction | Open Them by Saadat Hasan Manto, translated by Asna Nusrat
Sirajuddin dug deep into his weary mind for something but nothing came. Had he brought Sakina with him to the station…? Was she with him on the train…? Did he lose Sakina when the train was stopped by the mobsters and he had fainted?
Interview | داستان گوئی : A Conversation with Hammad Rind by Bareerah Ghani
“So, when you go back to the early days of the novel, or even earlier, for example, the work by Boccaccio, Decameron, the ten stories which are being told by these feudal lords and ladies who are confined in a villa outside Florence because of the Black Death.”
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 | کبھی دیکھا ہے ہم نے حُسنِ شاعری کو
by Farrukh Ali Hassan
کبھی دیکھا ہے ہم نے حُسنِ شاعری کو
کہ موجِ حالِ دسترس، الوداع عاجزی کو؟
وہ جو سکونِ قلبِ مطمئن ہے فضاؤں میں
ہے کون یاں جو توڑے اس وفا شعاری کو