Jun 30
By Mosarrap H. Khan
The men and women sang to the accompaniment of drums begging for money; the jobless youth boarded the trains during daytime hawking Oreo cookies, cheap perfumes, and stuffed toys; the teenage kids came after the school armed with music systems to dance and ask for money; at night, the train gave shelter to the homeless who carried all their possessions in small carts.
By Rashida Murphy
I uncurled from the floor, shut the bedroom door where my daughter still slept, dark hair and one bare leg visible under a purple blanket and switched the TV on softly. They were doing repeats of a disaster movie on every channel over and over again in freeze frames. Buildings were on fire and people were running in the street, followed by explosions and black smoke.
By Gauarv Deka
She had thought me to be one of those lost Indian men seeking love in alien lands. We had become good friends once she knew that I had nothing to do with women when it came to romance or sex. She’s the only person who has known about Arko as well as the fact that I was divorced before coming to Berlin from the very beginning.
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.
