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Yearly Archives: 2010

Getting Heard – Annie George

“Through poetry we approach fresh and unexplored areas of meaning. It is never a meaning in finality we can only hope to have approached...

Reminiscences – Santhosh Kumar Kana

My grandfather used to bring me a packet of sweets when I was nine or ten years old. When he arrived in the...

My Island – Jan Oskar Hansen

The island has a river, behind the river a dark forest sings when the wind blows around the mountain. I once climbed up to its summit...

Feathers – Vivek

It was a dull and horrid day for him, the day he attended his umpteenth interview, only to hear that the management had already...

India for Sale

“The flood of money that gushes into politics today is a pollution of democracy”  - Theodore H. White Unimaginable nexus among politicians, bureaucrats, press and...

“There is no war that can break and stop hatred. So I prefer Mahatma Gandhi’s non-violent style” Croatian Poet Lana Derkac

Lana Derkac was born on 22 June, 1969, in Požega, Croatia. She graduated from the University of Zagreb, Faculty of Philosophy. She writes poetry,...

River Mayyazhi a Sweet Memory – PA Noushad

Being far away from the madding crowd of the city, my village Nadapuram in Kozhikode District remains an unspoiled scenic beauty. The raging Mayyazhi...

Brown Pebbles – Anita Manuel

The wine was flowing. So were the conversation and the laughter. Apropos of nothing, Kane turned to smile at the Indian girl sitting next...
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Latest

The Forgotten Daughter of Port Adamaro

The story entails the political-historical period of the 1970s when the Dalit Panther movement was soon, to begin with, the influence of the Black Panther movement of the west. The following short story speaks of the relationship of two sisters under the premise of the revolution.

Resurrection

i have arrived at my altar. hark! i rise, i flourish, i pirouette on my one toe and float like a...

Stalking Prisons

The streets are empty with no one in sight, I check the big clock of the tower behind the basilic of Saint Francis of Assisi. It’s 2 o’clock on a mid-summer Tuesday afternoon. Everything’s shut. Everyone’s resting. My heart’s hitting the walls of its all so tight ribcage, as I need to cross the brightly lit square and go to the other side.

Must read

Reviewing ‘Obsession and Wild Pigeon’ by Ismat Chughtai

My interest in Ismat Chughtai developed when I first...