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Monthly Archives: February, 2016

The Hen And The Cock – Ndaba Sibanda, Zimbabwe

Once upon a time in a mineral-rich and landlocked country called Kudala lived a hen and a cock.  They were the proud and progressive...

No! Your birth was not your fatal accident – Monoranjan Thakur, Shillong

You loved Science, Stars, and Nature And off course You loved human despite they have divorced nature.   Your mother has woven a cloth as a tailor with future dreams...

Innocence – Parminder Singh, Chandigarh

These little feet would too run to match the pace of the crowd minting money, rather than running after the pug marks of a Pomeranian, or a rabbit. These little, mischievous...

Carl Jung – Vipin Behari Goyal, Jhodpur

All fiction is but a dream, all dreams are but a reality. No other stream has contributed towards enrichment of Literature as compared to...

From Epic Poetry to Twitter with a Twist: Chindu Sreedharan’s Retelling of The Mahabharata in Epic Retold-Jayendrina Singha Ray, New Delhi

Chindu Sreedharan’s book Epic Retold flouts the traditional expectations of an epic. His hero, here the protagonist and narrator, is not of superhuman stature;...

Miles to go

Indian Ruminations once again rededicate itself to motivate and promote Indian English Writing, especially the budding ones. We are extremely pleased that already hundreds...

Near The Heaven And Hell – Sanjit Sarkar, Darjeeling

In torn half- pants the burnt bread, Hunger haunts hunger. Sinking twinkling in ocular hollow, Death peeps through veiled skeletons, Uncaring wind weaves the sad epic, Bishu Munda of...
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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...