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Monthly Archives: October, 2012

” You can it me anything you wish; only I hope it is complimentary! – Elizabeth Kurian, Poet

Elizabeth (Mona) was born and brought up in Hyderabad, India. She had her education in Rosary Convent School and later in Nizam College. She...

Oh! Indian Society, the time is up!

“I was not rescued by a prince; I was the administrator of my own rescue."- Elizabeth Gilbert Can anywhere else on the surface of the...

Mo Yan wins Nobel Prize in literature 2012

Chinese author Mo Yan, becomes the first Chinese citizen ever to win the Nobel prize in literature.  He was chosen as the 2012 recipient for...

Peanuts – Sambhu Sankar, Kerala

Peels of peanuts lay scattered on his wooden table. The sun trickled in through the open window and little black ants scurried away with...

Vertigo – Eva Khashnobish, New Delhi

The get-together was scheduled for four o’clock in the afternoon. There were three invitees and two hosts. The meeting place was a senior citizen’s...

Nametag – Sanchit Gupta, Maharashtra

He held it in his hands, not knowing what to do. The digits colored red and blue, two way slide, LED flash double and...

Changing Canvas – J. T. Jayasingh

God is the master artist and sky is His canvass. One silent night we can gaze the blinking Milky Way against the dark blue...

The Lucky Pencil – Trilok Rangan, Karnataka

Birthday celebrations in my home are minimal and predictable. The day would not differ much from the rest of the days in the year...
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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...