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Rochelle Potkar
Rochelle POTKAR (fiction writer, poet; India) is the author of The Arithmetic of Breasts and Other Stories, and has three works in progress—a novel, a book of haibun, and a book of short stories. Her first book of poetry is Four Degrees of Separation (Paperwall, March ‘I6). Widely anthologized, a few of her stories and poems have been shortlisted or have won awards. Her works were dramatically read and interpreted by veteran actors and dancers on stages in Iowa and Portland, Maine. She has read poetry at several fêtes in Mumbai, Goa, Hyderabad, Chennai, Kolkatta, Hong Kong, and Iowa. Potkar also conducts creative- (flash fiction, poetry, haibun) workshops in colleges and libraries. She recently received a US grant for her upcoming project: a 2-week artists’ residency: Arcs-of-a-Circle. The Indian participants in this program will converge in Mumbai to converse on gender-based violence (GBV) through performative storytelling.
Author's Gallery:
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My uncle had a strange habit of gathering people.
Not less than 25 he would take on an outing.
Like: Aunty Perpetual with her breast cut
who would lift her t-shirt every time to show us her story,
Avo who would stand...
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Three walls of the room are made of tin, but on the fourth side a polished floor opens, running like fabric into curtains of lace, into wallpapers dotted with flowers, into ceilings pierced with mirror baubles,...
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Snakes and ladders I met Mrs. Kumar twice in my life. The first when I was an administrative assistant and she, the wife of a man who had climbed the slippery corporate ladder... media_text
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The three boys jumped over the boarding school wall in the suede of night. They had scored 3 out of 20 marks and were horse-whipped 17 times. The teacher promised a similar punishment the next day too. The... media_text
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He was first a snake and was in love with her - a she-snake. And then he molted and after he molted he was a turtle and he met another she-turtle and fell in love with her. When he de- shelled after years, he became a...
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My father was the quietest man; his few words made no sense in the world’s idiom. Saddled into a marriage astride a dead horse of tradition he flogged it too many times for two... media_text
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At the time of my birth, my small town Kalyan, did not have a library. It had no road rage, few beggars, one defunct traffic signal at Murbad Road, and fewer cars. Horizontal... media_text
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Memory is...images of a prepubescent boy cycling home,
Parag milk packets in one of his arms,
feeding biscuits to a stray gaggle of brown dogs, wagging their shins. Large half-moon eyes, kind salivating... media_text
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‘Your mother-in-law is responsible for your husband’s sperm velocity. It’s got to do with genetics,’ the doctor says. ‘I thought the sperm had no choice,’ she inquires, ‘isn’t the egg mighty and the sperm one... media_text
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