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Monthly Archives: March, 2020

Sharapova: Victim of Fate or of False Regulatory Mechanism?- Dr. Razeena Kuzhimandapathil, Kerala

Maria Yuryevna Sharapova definitely had a controversial career both inside and outside tennis courts. She has the talent that made her a winner; but...

A Suicide Note in Crayons – Arsha Bijer, Kerala

Dear Pappa, Today I turned nine! It was a colourful Birthday. The cake was too yummy , And I liked the crayons you...

Images of broken democracy

The burnt streets in Delhi are nothing but the images of broken confidence in democracy. It is definitely impossible to consider that nation as democratic when a...

Safai Karamchari – Utsav Kaushik, Delhi

What can values do in this stinky pile of shit, Memories don’t last here a second, This incessant smell as it hits our...

A hectic Journey – Sudip Sen Gupta, West Bengal

I would like to share one of my memorable experience with all of you. This was back when I had just completed my schooling days. Our...

Gratitude – Ramlal Agarwal, Jalna

He Sat in a high chair I stood piteously begging a favour He frowned but Gave me a job Suffused with gratitude I...

Suicide – Sivaprasad V., Kerala

An act of cowardice when a loser does Disgrace to kins it brings He does have the right to live but the right...

My Vulnerable Self – Yatin Arora

Hiding the hurt, hiding the pain, Hiding the tears that fall like rain. Saying I'm fine when I'm anything but. This ache in...
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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...