This week, Strange Horizons is thrilled to present a special issue showcasing recent work by and about science fiction and fantasy writers from India.
When we were young, we would always get lost in the house. Quietly but suddenly, we would find ourselves in rooms or corridors that had not been there before. Unfamiliar clothing hung on chairs or lay neatly folded on beds that we did not recognize. Sometimes there would be a half-empty tumbler of water on a desk, a book or a pile of loose change. Windows looked out on places we did not know. Even the sun and the trees looked strange. When this happened, there was nothing to do but wait until the house shook itself out and we were put back, a few hours later, with no one noticing we were gone.
In this episode of the Strange Horizons podcast, editor Anaea Lay presents Supriya Nair reading Kuzhali Manickavel's “Things That Happened While We Waited For Our Magical Grandmother to Die—No. 39.”
They were not the kind of dreams that you’d expect a dog to have. The dreams he’d had before the men came had been doggy dreams. The dreams he had after they grabbed him, though, these dreams were entirely new.
In this episode of the Strange Horizons podcast, editor Anaea Lay presents Shruti Iyer reading Shankar Gopalakrishnan's “The Right Way To Be Sad.”
Writers Tashan Mehta (The Liar's Weave) and Prayaag Akbar (Leila) and writer-editor Salik Shah (The Mithila Review) got together with Articles Editor Gautam Bhatia to have a conversation about the present and the futures of English-language Indian speculative fiction writing. Gautam Bhatia: Five years ago, Strange Horizons ran a discussion about Indian speculative fiction with writers and editors, hosted by Anil Menon (Part I and Part II), called "Splitting the Difference." They talked about problems of nomenclature (what is Indian SF), theme (what is, and what should, Indian SF be about), and authorship (which writers—past and present—make up the field).
That’s not why she woke up with the first cuckoo song, to catch the mysterious moves of stars arranging the destiny of the day. She knew hers was trapped in the figures of the Krishna calendar. She knew of dead ends and that the tea she’d boiled for him one last time— it’s been ten months since the wood fire went cold— still sent up cardamom and cinnamon curls in the humid air. What’s different in the number grid, she’d answered me when I’d asked her if it was a thirty-month or a thirty-one month she overhauled what
Flowers don’t lie, he tells me one morning weaving his words carefully around the kernel. My question ‘why flowers of all things’ doesn’t make a headway through the shell. His hands were always mud, birthing buds from all plants that flowered. His doctrines germinated from little saplings in big to medium to small earthen pots. The blooms took all the gravity of his conclusions. In the backdrop of his enlightenment the plants, the rooted disciples were too discoursed to shake a leaf to his sermons and touching the gaze of a longing breeze, too much to ask. I