Punjabi poetry stands on ashes, reinforced by a blend of spirituality and dissent.

She searched for an answer, embarrassed for the first time in her life at having to say what she was about to.

“Have you been able to forget me?”

I cannot serve a glass of water to a Brahmin’s son.

It was late. Who knew where Bhootnath could buy liquor at this hour?

These writers have migrated geographically and, in some cases, linguistically.

“Why? Wasn’t there a guava tree at the other guy’s place?”

Are they more beautiful than me?

When the thunder of guns tears out the tongue from the nightingale

Hyacinth! Lift your head your head from within the mud

The texts we were working with were profoundly unstable.

You kindled hope in me. Now fill my cups.

Until recently, the tribal literature created in non-mainstream languages has not been very recognized or available for an Indian or global audience.

Who is Italian, what is the Italian language, and who deserves to write in it?

He was fascinated with India: I represented its Italian branch, easily accessible.

“I gallop in English, I am a towering dervish in Urdu, and Hindi is my Kama Sutra. I am still on all fours in Italian.”

So changing landscapes are also about changing identities.

“Ayya won’t come to school on his bicycle anymore from now on, it seems, da.”

Someone had left the corpse on the bicycle.

“As if you have to ask that low-caste boy’s permission in order to see your own mother!”

Though married, I practice celibacy very strictly.

The wretch was standing there / in a Che Guevara T-shirt and sunglasses—

The only thing that I lack is a single letter from you.

Along the highways / of a refugee’s life / snapshots of childhood memories / hang:

I thought just speaking to Nathan was like participating in a revolution.

It was not possible to think of the youth’s transgression as accidental.

Fear depends on the mind; / the mind depends on experience.

“I am the Great Lord Pabori, who eats the roast of seven lions!”

“I was a fool. I will die and you will live. Return to our young now!”

The cat said, “If I fetch him from down here, what will you give me?”

It is likely that in the folktales preserved in the Sindhi language, we can find the structures and traces of the earliest stories from the Indus Valley Civilization.

The queer world is shaking.

What do we do? Do we kidnap children?

During the red and yellow storms I even went out and watched the landscape changing color.

Love sowed its blue stars / On our private night

The barber pulled out a sharpened razor, placed it in his friend's hand, and said, Cut out any piece of my flesh that you like.

In this teeming city, is there none / Who might recognize me?

In its houses, corpses have stayed for years / renting.

A trembling fear, and a midnight phone call.

“But Ratti Bai, when you earn forty rupees, why whore around?”

Notwithstanding President Barack Obama’s delightful disclosure that he likes Urdu poetry, few in the West know anything about this language and even less about its otherwise vibrant literature.

For some time I thought about Childhood Love. What a strange name! Was it some woman? Some old flame of Murad Mian? What state must she be in now?

“People regard her as no more than a tart. Do you really want your daughter to become a striptease dancer in some hotel?”

The moment he saw her, his hand stopped dead, his mouth fell open, and his eyes widened. She stared at the cop sweetly.

Although the picture of the unclaimed head didn’t exactly resemble his brother’s, the slightly curved nose and the scar above the upper lip were exactly like Chotto’s

“Why don’t we toss a coin. Heads you’ll live longer, tails I will.”

A scrawny young man ran out of a narrow alley. His wrists were bound behind him and his clothes were on fire. “Help! Help!” he was shouting. “Water! Water!”

Magan hesitated, fumbling for words, and then said, “Why, you could make a Gandhi, a Nehru . . .” And as if he’d made a mistake, he quickly corrected himself, “A nude, for instance.”

“I used to be a simple, unpretentious Hindu. I got mixed up with you and became a fake Muslim. Then I didn’t even stay a true Hindu. I have become a complete heretic, what you might call an atheist.”

I am / 9

These sciences were used in different combinations to create magic.

He had three names: Majeeta, Majeed and Ma'i Dada

The enormous weight of three hundred and sixty-five days once again slips from my hand and falls down into the dark cavern of the past.

Cropless the fields, childless the wives, day after day an emptiness—no rain.

A paper kite, black with yellow stripes, dangled from the branches of the gulmohur tree, and a flock of agitated crows flew around it cawing. Some went in perilously close, others hopped restlessly on…

Like mosquitoes, the courtiers didn't need to find any excuse to bite.

The dry belly of the earth became green with their wheat and fennel, mustard, cumin, and fenugreek.

This lunatic's name was Bashan Singh, but everyone called him Toba Tek Singh.

He is said to be now looking for an American wife. Uncle, for God's sake help him there so that he can be saved from a sorry end.