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Monthly Archives: March, 2016

Writer’s Dream

“I want to do something splendid… Something heroic or wonderful that won’t be forgotten after I’m dead… I think I shall write books.” ― Louisa...

Indian Novel in English: Last three decades – Ramlal Agarwal, Maharashtra

Writing about Indian writing in English. Salman Rushdie in his preface to Vintage Indian writing in English 1947-1997 says, “the prose writing – both fiction...

Sadness- A missed Opportunity – Abhishek Srivastava, Gurgaon

More I live, the more I see that for many people, sadness is unavoidable. These people, often very bright and cheerful, seem unable to...

A Nobel Poetry – Anusree Ganguly, West Bengal

The Nobel Prize in literature felicitates what poets and writers dream of : the mastery over the creative forms ,the ability to influence the...

Friday Market – Dr.Zita Lobo, UAE

As the narrow long road shot straight into the horizon, Hadeer looked at it with wide eyes oblivious of her companion on this drive....

Collective Shame – Sunaina Jain, Chandigarh

It was a sultry evening. The scorching heat of May stretched itself beyond afternoons to the evenings. The sky had turned crimson and orange...

Love in the Shadow of Death – Ghulam Mohammad Khan, Kashmir

It was a long wintry night; my soul stealthily stole away from my body into the cold darkness outside and danced with the wanton...

Nusrat

It is just one of those days when Nusrat would silently sit at the window, contemplating the drops of water as they race through...
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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...