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Yearly Archives: 2019

White Winters, Gargi Saha, Varanasi

Face painted with foundation, lipstick, lip gloss and eye shadow Jewellery in hands, around the neck and ankles Hair stylised, cut...

Roommates – Jagari Mukherjee, Kolkata

My roommates and I danced With one another in the dark room Attached to the terrace. The music was low So that the...

Colours – Sonali Sharma, Uttarakhand

Red, yellow, and blue, Encircling the last ring, Of warfare, triumph, and tranquillity, Deepening an uncertainty, In which humans get absorbed. If the...

In Search of an Identity – Arushi Handa, Noida

Growing up, I always thought my father was a practical and stoic man. Since he is a scientist, one could argue that it came along with...

Democracy on the Corners – Ifa Agnes, Bihar

Democracy has hit its 70s Standing in the corner of each road Distributing pamphlets of rights and rules. Passersby ignore...

The Enigma of Modern Democracy- Narain Rao, Balijipeta

In reality, modern democratic republic or government is nothing but a maggot that eats out on the bodies of people without their conscious realization of their own...

Politics of Superiority and Discriminated Dignity of Regional Languages – A.S. Gawrisanker, Delhi

We congratulate the activists of United Malayalam Movement (Aikya Malayala Prasthanam) for orgnising the uncompromising movement in order to ensure question papers in mother tongue (in...

Results of October Rounds: Are We Politically Equipped for Political Alternatives? – Praveen Pilassery

It is becoming one year since Supreme Court of India made the controversial Sabarimala temple women entry verdict which divided the so called progressive society 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...