The New Yorker

When the state knows that its right-wing affiliates will carry out the kind of violence that it should not pursue, then all it has to do is nothing.

Reading “My Seditious Heart,” you feel as if Roy has been hollering for years, trying to grab our attention, and we’ve kept motoring on toward the edge of the cliff.

Sri Lanka now finds itself in a state of doubled wariness. It must contend with its own nature: its inability to protect its minorities and its proclivity to politicize strife.

There is something touchingly human in the dispersal of these games—in the vision of travellers packing for long, hard journeys and remembering to take with them something to kill time.

The Supreme Court’s decision on Section 377 snips away one more tether binding India to its colonial past.

In the buildings of Balkrishna Doshi, the Indian architect who won this year’s Pritzker Prize, it’s easy to take the light for granted.

In one of his notebooks, Gedney scribbled a couple of lines from the Bhagavad Gita, spoken by Krishna to his friend Arjuna: “Many lives you and I have lived, Arjuna; I remember them all, but you do not.” This could have been Gedney’s credo. He moved among transitory...

Given the spectacular horror Dhaka has witnessed, it appears that ISIS has found firm traction within a segment of the populace.

Who is hacking Bangladeshi bloggers to death?