International Fiction

Another drinks party at the Wentworth Tennis Club. The company tends to be on the conservative side at the club – almost all of the husbands
commute to the City, very few of the wives work – and I had no high hopes of any great repartee. In fact it would be fair to say that I could identify in advance every single topic of conversation that was likely to be raised.

It was, however, a lovely evening. The heat of the day had ceded to a golden stillness, and long shadows were painted on the lawn and the clubhouse veran­dah. And I would venture to say that we ourselves made a brave enough picture, with the men distinguished in blazers and open-necked shirts and the women charming in print dresses and light woollens. I arrived just as the fray was warm­ing up, and after arming me with a gin and tonic – longish on the gin, shortish on the tonic, as is my regrettable wont – the club secretary introduced me to a new member, Davina Harvey-Clissold.

Mrs Harvey-Clissold was an attractive woman of some 35 summers. She was wearing a navy blue linen suit with a pretty sapphire brooch. Her intelligent features displayed a light honey-coloured tan – Barbados, perhaps, or Gstaad­and her smartly cut blonde hair was restrained by a black velvet band.
“So,” I said, when she had accepted a cigarette and I had lit it for her. “Tell me something about yourself.”

She smiled politely and examined the frosted glass of her drink. “I love to guzzle cum,” she told me. “I love it when some big-cocked stud hoses my dirty slut’s face with his creamy wad.”

“And have you and your husband moved to the area recently?” I asked her. She coloured slightly at the intimate nature of the question.

“I love to feel a massive rock-hard prick between my juicy stiff-nippled chest-puppies,” she said, drawing absently at her cigarette. “But how about you, Mr Corbishley? Do you like to drive your rock-hard piston into the drenched twat of a barely legal cumteen? Or do you prefer to gag on the swollen ebony shaft of a Brazilian she-male?”

Her question went unanswered, for at that moment an acquaintance of hers hove into view. They air-kissed, and Mrs Harvey-Clissold turned to me. “Mr Corbishley, I’d like you to meet Consuela Vasconcellos. Consuela is a filthy spunk-chugging Latina slut-bitch who likes nothing better than to spread her coral pink cunt-lips for a succession of huge-cocked studs.”

Consuela Vasconcellos smiled, and we shook hands. Sensing a directness in her manner -and, I confess, a hint of mischief -I dared a personal question.
“How do you find Berkshire, Mrs Vasconcellos?” I asked.

Her jaw dropped, and for a long moment she stared at me, appalled. Then, with every fibre of her being quivering with outrage, she turned on her heel and marched into the clubhouse.

“Well, that was hardly tactful, was it?” murmured Davina Harvey-Clissold. “I’ve heard you have a reputation for plain speaking, but … ”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but don’t you sometimes feel you want to cut to the chase with people? To dispense with the formalities? I mean, would you really be of­fended if I asked you your opinion of the property market, or where you and your husband were thinking of sending your children to school?”

Hardly were the words out of my mouth than a stinging slap connected with my face. The report was like that of a gunshot, and I could feel my cheek blazing with the force of the blow. When my eyes had finally cleared, Davina Harvey-Clissold was nowhere to be seen and the club secretary had material­ised at my side.

“Dickie, old boy,” he began. “You must stop behaving like this. People are beginning to talk.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m afraid I just don’t seem to have the gift of small talk.

George Arbuthnot looked at me kindly. “Let’s just forget about it, shall we? Why don’t you help yourself to one of my panatellas and come and say hello to the Hoarwithys. Guy loves chocolate sex-play while wearing a hardened rubber butt-plug and Sophie dreams of being orally and anally violated by a succession of monster cocks in a Transylvanian dungeon.”

The sensible chap, I have always thought, knows when it’s time to throw the towel.

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International Fiction

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“Translation as Adventure, Obsession and Collaboration”

Join us for this week’s #TranslationThursdays session with Sampurna Chattarji, poet, novelist, teacher and translator par excellence. She has eighteen published books to her credit. Her translation of Joy Goswami’s Selected Poems is a Harper Perennial; and Wordygurdyboom! – her translation of Sukumar Ray – is a Puffin Classic. She is currently Poetry Editor of The Indian Quarterly. (more…)


“Announcing this week’s #TranslationThursdays session with Arunava Sinha, award-winning translator and Associate Professor of Creative Writing, Ashoka University. Arunava Sinha translates classic, modern and contemporary Bengali fiction and nonfiction into English, and from English into Bengali.

Participate in the session and find out how Arunava began his translation journey, as he speaks about “My First Translation”. If you’re looking for some inspiration this week, this is it.

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Thank you, and see you there!

#FUNtasticBookWeekends continues at Storyteller Bookstore!
This Sunday come spend time with Shabnam Minwalla as she does a dramatised book reading of her own book, Nimmi’s Bizuper Birthday.
The book is about Nimmi who is waiting for her birthday and is excited about a new mobile phone, and a party. Of course, it all comes with some disastrous issues including a competition birthday party by someone else! This will be followed by a word game!
5:30 PM onwards this Sunday, register here to attend the session –
Powered by Talking Cub / Storyteller Bookstore/ LBB, Kolkata


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The Assassination of Indira Gandhi: The Collected Stories ‘Some of [the stories] are truly complex, and some revel in simplicity. What is evident throughout is the humorous and satirical voice of the author. The understated humour freely sprinkled on the pages will not escape your attention. And this satire is serious literary satire… The Assassination of Indira Gandhi- The Collected Stories of Upamanyu Chatterjee is not a light weekend read, but instead needs to be treated like a true classic.’ Book review of The Assassination of Indira Gandhi: The Collected Stories

The Drunk Bird Chronicles ‘One hundred years of pandemonium is the phrase that best describes Malay Chatterjee’s thoroughly enjoyable debut novel… Irreverence and wit keep readers engrossed even as triumph and tragedy unfold, skeletons tumble out of closets, and love, lust, hope and greed keep Braganza and Co. going.’ Book review of The Drunk Bird Chronicles

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