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Yearly Archives: 2018

The Chandelier above us – Jazar Shahul, Kerala

The yellow glow of the chrome lamp, Softened the contrast on her delicate face, A tiny wisp of smile brought her cute dimples, Where I longed to...

The rainbow skirt of hope – Kriti Mazumdar

As the red glow of the setting sun simmered at the horizon, Reba smeared the last of the soft molded cow dung from the...

Maroa – Abu Siddik, West Bengal

In one late afternoon in April two men, one young and the other old, were angling in a shallow pond. They sat on haunches,...

A thief’s confession – Vivek Nath Mishra, Uttar Pradesh

I was at work, and in front of my seat there was a long queue, just like the approach and retreat of the sea...

Three flash tales – Alok Kumar Satpute, Raipur

Insecurity Miyaan (Bro), why are you collecting the chanda(donation) for a Hindu festival? Don’t you know that worship of statues is strictly prohibited in Islam? Bhaijaan (Dear brother)...

Simple Living – Preeth Ganapathy, Bangalore

Great bungalows of marble and mahogany, Carefully curated artifacts and chandeliers aplenty Soft comfortable beds and plush sofas And closets full of shoes and make up A variety...

Hey! You’re a role model – Mikhail Puyam

We, the humans advance by imitations; we all go through a number of phases, from stage to stage, and we call it , Life. As natural learners, our...

The Boat Queen of the Creeks – Mahua Banerjee, Kolkata

“Aww Boudi…” She would call her every time. That was Maalati Raani working for six and a half months as Mrs. Ghoshal’s domestic help....
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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...