To you.

This is perhaps my favourite time of the year. I begin this letter from one of the abandoned compartments of an airconditioned bogey, a humble offering of the Western Railways. It's only 7:45 in the morning, but the sun has no respite. I am protected from its glare by ten centimeters of toughened blue glass,... Continue Reading →


Great things were expected from Bocchi from the minute he was born. He was, after all, the only son of our leader, our messiah, our saviour. While Bocchi was a swift boy and far brighter than most kids his age, he was more like a jack of all trades. Over time no one had been... Continue Reading →

For The Love of Rollercoasters

Love. Or as you know it, Vasu. Vasu is difficult to love, but you pull through. And today is the fateful day you win your love over It’s scary. You know. But Vasu deserves it, you know that too. So you grit your teeth, and ball up your fists. There are seven obstacles in the... Continue Reading →

Mahabharata: Rising Action

Perhaps what I love the most about Mahabharata is the flawed nature of all its characters. Their grey features. Their is no cut-to-cut definition of dharma or 'right' in this text, for every circumstance, action and event has an indispensable backstory to it. And when you take all factors into consideration, there's hardly any space... Continue Reading →

Mahabharata: The Birth

The Mahabharata is the longest epic ever written, generally thought to have been composed in the 4th century BCE or earlier. It is either categorized as history or as myth; it is both, while being neither. The Mahabharata is itihasa. The text was originally composed in Sanskrit, where the central narrative is about two branches of a... Continue Reading →


The walls are closing in. You feel choked, like something is squeezing you into a little ball. You want to scream, you want to let people know but what will the people do. Out of nowhere, you'll feel punched out of breath, your teeth will cut against cheek and you will taste yourself leaking red... Continue Reading →

The Write Advice #1

I've been reading a lot of Black female writers lately. Their literature has an undeniable power and resonance to it, perhaps because of their unparalleled examination of relationships between races and genders and sexuality. An acute awareness of the political climate of their era is fluently woven into fantastic representations of myth and folklore. No... Continue Reading →

And with the thundering dispersal of the conference of old white clouds, a sky so blue graduates to hues of blood and bruises. Winds race to the horizon that smells faintly of a yellow candle burning in its center. (maybe its the pollution)        


i don't like how familiar i am with the exhausted sigh of autumn's last leaf. i don't like how easily recognizable the sound of broken dreams is to me. i don't like how the dying flower's last puff of fragrance resonates in my blood. i don't like how restful i feel in the company of... Continue Reading →

photographs from the family album

Navy blue sofas, faded at the rims A circular glass fixed on a short wooden tripod, nonchalantly sitting in the space between us; the table serves no purpose. It is too far from both our sofas to be useful for anything. Pretty much like our conversation, that ran out of life five seconds after it began.... Continue Reading →

That’s Not How You Get To Memphis

Ten. Ten minutes to go, and I was one essay away from the finish line. They had requested Mrs Sinha to give us a real question this time, because what business did third graders have with rewriting Snow White from the Wicked Witch's viewpoint, or imagining life with superpowers but just one day. What business,... Continue Reading →

पुष्प वाटिका

The Sun had begun its ascent westward. Nascent rays bounced on the edges of the jewelled sculptures, casting reflections all around the garden. Morning blossoms welcomed the flying swarms with tunes of fragrance. Sita hissed a rather unladylike curse at the bees teeming around her garland of pink chrysanthemums; their buzzing could’ve given away her... Continue Reading →

In the Side Margins of History

The silence brought on by the curfew was so stark, Subba could register the thudding of his own heart. Waheguru[i] only knew how long his poor heart could sustain before becoming a floating cadaver of carbs in a river of cheap oil, like the samosas[ii] he had wolfed down just a few hours ago. Mosquitoes buzzed... Continue Reading →


  Every crevice of this city has folded the smell of the sea and stored it deep inside its pockets. The minute you enter, your nostrils reluctantly submit to the overpowering freshness of the ceaselessly indecisive waves and your skin begins to itch for their salty dryness to carve their stories in your palms and feet... Continue Reading →

small acts of life

My sister and I have never been the kind you'd tag with #sisterhoodgoals, and we never will be. While I hold her singularly responsible for a staggering amount of unnecessary scolding that I received, I also hold her responsible for being my most unassuming inspiration. So this one evening, I am returning from work and... Continue Reading →

Love Loves Love Not – II

Pratyoush was a more hot-and-cold kind of lover. Some days he would seem so distant, as if he barely knew me. And other days, he would text me so much that I had to beg him to let me sleep. His parents had strictly prohibited him from seeing me or talking to me. Like that... Continue Reading →

Love Loves Love Not – I

My romance with Pratyoush Binoy Banerjee was epic in Bollywood-shattering levels. It was love at first sight for the both of us, young kids as we were of 7 or 8 years. My birthday party. Even then, the very sight of me walking towards him in that frilly yellow frock made him stammer and ramble.... Continue Reading →

Have you heard of the turbaned man?

That’s a terribly huge turban! exclaims the maiden from behind her veil. Biting her tongue the very next moment, she hopes that she hasn’t been heard; but she has been, loud and clear, in spite of the man’s ears being almost completely hidden under the twisted folds of his extravagant turban. The scene is abuzz with... Continue Reading →

The Garland Weaver

His hands smell of blood and rose, from all the times the callous needle dug into his flesh instead of the flowers. At 14, he has weaved more garlands than stars in the dreary summer sky. Blood doesn’t seep out of this wounds anymore, there isn’t much left of that in his frail weather beaten... Continue Reading →

Durga, I ask you

Panchamrit, to bathe her battle wounds Oti, of bright red silk to drape her like a bride Abeer, sindoor, haldi, gopichandan, kapoor: embellishments for her preternatural idol Naivaidya, the offering of a feast divine So what is it about you that makes people fold their hands bend their knees, bow their heads eager to please?... Continue Reading →

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