Sixth-grader Lina Uesugi received a strange set of instructions from her father before the beginning of summer vacation: “Go to the Misty Valley. There’s a person there who was good to me years ago.” He didn’t explain to her why she should go or what will happen when she arrives. He simply put her on a train from Shizuoka Prefecture, about 145 kilometers (90 miles) down Japan’s eastern coast from Tokyo, to head north and inland.

TS Eliot concludes his 1922 poem, “The Waste Land”, with three words: Shantih Shantih Shantih. This Sanskrit term for peace is the title of Daryl Qilin Yam’s novella that centers around the implausible idea of a quick snowfall in Singapore in the middle of the night when most people are still asleep. Yam weaves twelve interrelated stories around this snowfall, bringing together a dozen characters from various backgrounds who all find themselves awake at four in the morning.

“Writers on writing” is a genre in itself, one to which readers flock. However, Indian authors, especially those writing in regional Indian languages, are rarely represented in this genre meant for the internationally-acknowledged the-Western-and-the-famous. Therefore, Hindi writer Geet Chaturvedi’s The Master of Unfinished Things, translated into English by Anita Gopalan, will come  as a breath of curious air.

The increasing number of memoirs and novels set in China over the past couple of decades fall into two broad buckets. A handful of Americans taught English in China and returned to write memoirs around the same time as Chinese immigrants to the US and UK began to find success as fiction writers, both in English and in translation. Daniel Tam-Claiborne’s debut novel, Transplants, combines these two viewpoints: a Chinese-American woman named Liz moves to a small town in Shanxi province to teach English and befriends a local university student named Lin.

Macau, to its understandable chagrin, often seems an afterthought: to Hong Kong which overtook it, to Canton when it came to China trade, to Manila and the eponymous galleons when it came to being an entrepôt of global status, in the history of Western colonialism and imperialism in East Asia generally and today when it comes to business and tourism. But perhaps Macau owes its continuing uniqueness to just this. It always was, and remains, a distinct anomaly.

Amrita Sher-Gil was an early 20th-century Hungarian Jewish-Indian painter, one of the most celebrated women artists in India of the time. Her father was a Sikh aristocrat and her mother a professional opera singer. She started painting in the western tradition, influenced by the likes of Cezanne and Gauguin, and became known for her paintings of Indian villagers. Sher-Gil died at the young age of twenty-eight, supposedly from a botched abortion. Alka Joshi’s latest novel, Six Days in Bombay, is loosely based on Sher-Gil’s story and is a mystery of sorts set not only in Bombay, but also Prague, Paris, Florence, and London, mainly in 1937.

Singaporean debut author Malcom Seah is a writer of originality, scope and ambition, who is unafraid to take on challenging issues, ranging from eating disorders, to sexual abuse, to the complexities of coming out in a conservative society. He is skilled at plotting, marrying his intricate and intriguing plot with elements of experimental fiction.

Sex is disgusting and unnecessary, men grow foetuses in a sac of artificial skin, and love between two spouses is strictly platonic and familial. These are the building blocks of the strange and deliriously fascinating alternative reality of Sayaka Murata’s newest novel, Vanishing World. Like all of Murata’s previous stories, questions around the terror of abnormal entities in polite society and atypical approaches to intimacy form the book’s core, puncturing every page with warbling instability. Vanishing World, like all of Murata’s other stories in English, has been translated by Ginny Tapley Takemori.