spot_img

Monthly Archives: March, 2011

My Pencil, Eraser & Pen – Dr. Sonnet Mondal

There is always A half broken pencil In my right pocket To pen poems And an eraser on the left To rub them off. The manuscript is the Tongue of my...

A blessing in disguise – Dr. Harpreet Singh, Punjab

“Woman is the companion of man, gifted with equal mental capacities. She has the right to participate in very minutest detail in the activities...

A free race cannot be born of slave mothers

On March 8th 2011, we celebrated 100th year of International Women's Day. Even after hundred years of celebration, women continue to be the target...

Asterisk – Sandhya S.N

I love you and I will... through out my life... He affirmed his words passionately But an unseen stubborn asterisk clung to his flavoured smile with some unconditioned clause which reads......, 'unless...

Carnage – Ambica

Untimely events shape the outcome of many circumstances. These events can alter the setting of any entity.The constant splatter of raindrops seemed as an...

A small-town girl – Ashmitha Prakash

Anna was sitting alone in a corner seat at the restaurant. Her face was thoughtful as she sipped coffee from the cup and...

The Long Dark Tea – Time of the Soul – Raman Sathiapalan

The last of the intermittent rain showers is here. Like a dying man's final battle, there is an increase in its intensity, but one...

The attack of a Cobra – Rajani Priya.S

The whole village was in an eerie silence when the house of Sameera also followed the rhythm of sleep. Sameera's father, who was tired...
spot_imgspot_img

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...