Jun 30
By Ruma Chakravarti
As I read the letter, my eyes filled with tears. Atul and Savita sat in silence. Then Savita began to cry. Great dry sobs. And I held her hand and thought about those men. I thought about Atul and me, and about Savita’s sons who would never learn how to read Hindi.
By Pooja Garg Singh
It was on one such road trip that I read Susan Sontag’s ‘On Photography’. The book became for me an experiential lens with which to look at my life instead of what it is – a book on photography. I became the camera as life became a fast developing film where all one is left holding are a series of quick shots.
By Amitabh Mitra
To be free is all we ever need. The age-old streets at Johannesburg are the same as in Delhi. One reflected its own reflection of the conqueror and the vanquished and the other spoke of once rusted rivers, now barely an overcrowded thread. Each in its own way remembered their ancient strife; season in layers resented the estrangement of evenings and darkness.
By Shloka Shankar
The house seemed smaller all of a sudden. Perhaps we were one too many. Three generations huddled together under the same roof. I fondly trace old and new cracks on the walls and even find a few of my scribbles to my delight. Everything was just the same.
Café Dissensus 