“I’m done,” said Bella. “Done with what?” I said without much interest, taking a swig of......

Lost Words The story of lost wordsstill haunts us.We are accusedof lacking history and authenticity.Our oralities......

Sushila Takbhaure’s Shikanje ka Dard translated as My Shackled Life is an archive of a deep......

The well-groomed student Formal yellow jacket, white shirt black pants bow tie Starched white napkin over......

Walking into my poem she sat like a metaphor on hunger, her child slung on her......

1. My origins cite a plethora of Gods, demi –gods traditions wrapped in cultures moored in......

Migration, Exile…these are men’s words. Women have always been torn up like rice seedlings to be......

He hugs his tumbler of tea. It is the most precious thing. He stands beneath a......

father shatters the mirror to show the lad again fatherfather rememorates the glass no man can......

My friend Dhritvan goes to sleep every day after our class ends at 1:30 pm. “It’s......