Times Palette: Vol. IX Issue 1

Chaicopy Vol. IX | Issue I | March 2025 Editorial Published by MCH Literary Club Manipal Centre for Humanities, Manipal, Karnataka- 576104 Only the copyright for this collection is reserved with Chaicopy. Individual copyright for artwork, prose, poetry, fiction and extracts of novels and other volumes published in this issue of the magazine rests solely with the authors.

The magazine does not claim any of those for its own. No part of this publication may be copied without express written permission from the copyright holders in each case. The magazine is freely circulated on the World Wide Web. It may not be sold or hired out in its digital form to anybody by any agency whatsoever. All disputes are subject to the jurisdiction of the courts of the Republic of India. © Chaicopy, 2025.

Cover Art: Preranalakshmi Desharapu Cover Design: Soumita Bhattacharrya Layout and Page Setting: Anosha Rishi Team Members: Editors-in-Chief: Abirami Srinivasan, Anosha Rishi.

Fiction: Anirudh Prabhu, Saujanya Satyanarayan, Manya Kapoor, Dhaarini R, Akshara, Sritanu Nalla, Sharon Edel Britto, Namita Ahuja, Ananya Raj .

Non-fiction: Charvi Bhatnagar, Annu Clair Joseph, Tanvi Khater, Raghavi Rao, Anjanaa Viswanathan, Nidhi, Vaishnavi Manoj.

Visual Art and Graphic Design: Amelie Dutta, Manasi Chattopadhyay, Soumita Bhattacharyya, Preranalakshmi Desharapu, Pehel Kenia, Ishita Pal. Social Media: Thrishaana MS, Vidmahi, Aakanksha Muthe, Sanjana Menon, Shibani, Jennifer Joseph, Priyadarshini Gogoi, Bobby Tom Mathew, Aparna.

From the Editor’s Desk Dear readers, The passage of time has always been a mystery to the human soul.

We often hear the saying, “We don’t have much time left,” yet time is not something we possess. Instead, we are mere specks within its vast, cosmic mechanism—like grains of sand in an infinite hourglass. Constantly evolving, we are shaped by time. We find ourselves tossed from one moment to the next, rarely pausing to reflect on the events of a single day, much less a week. Recalling a distant memory, one tied to a different past—an era that once defined our very being—seems increasingly difficult.

For many of us at Chaicopy, this is our last semester of college—a time that marks not just the end of an era, but the beginning of something new. As we approach this bittersweet transition, the theme of Time’s Palette becomes even more meaningful for us.

Time’s Palette overwhelms you with a wave of nostalgia, transporting you to the core memories of your life—the moments that changed you, the ones you wish you could return to, and the people who were with you during those times. For those of us nearing the end of this chapter, it is the simplest memories—the fleeting encounters and quiet moments—that seem to hold the most power in shaping who we are now. Just as a painter’s palette holds every hue it has ever touched, so does the human life contain fragments of every change its gone and grown through. Time’s Palette is an ode to the seasons we pass through—invoking both hope and despair—and serves as a reminder that, this, too, shall pass.

As we stand on the precipice of this new beginning, Time’s Palette becomes not just a reflection of where we’ve been, but also a quiet acknowledgment of how we carry every part of our past forward into the future.

We are grateful for each and every one of you who shared your work with us, and we hope we were able to do it justice. We hope that you look forward to reading the future editions of Chaicopy and continue to support the journal.

Happy reading!

With love, Abirami Srinivasan and Anosha Rishi (and all of Team Chaicopy)

Ingredients Untitled | Visual Art | Soumita Bhattacharyya Chai Expressions Time Is Ticking | Poetry | 1 Neeta Doshi Plea For A Moment | Short Prose | 2 Kalyani Nandagopal When Winter Steps Into My Town | Poetry | 4 Madhumita Roy Survive | Poetry | 5 Saujanya Satyanarayan The Message From Above, The Peace Within | Visual Art | 7 Manasi Chattopadhyay 4AM Philosophy | Poetry | 8 Joyeeta Das The Fisherman's Voyage | Visual Art | 10 Amelie Dutta Joy In The Little Things | Visual Art | 11 Raaghav Chapa Remember Us | Poetry | 12 Ekasmayi

Yellow Tulips | Poetry | 14 Ankita A Face Shaped By Time | Visual Art | 15 Raaghav Chapa White And Grey | Poetry | 16 Saujanya Satyanarayan Leaves To Live By | Short Prose | 18 Swayama Sengupta Memories Of A Childhood Long Gone | Visual Art | 28 Raaghav Chapa Growing Up | Poetry | 29 Preety G.R. The Sky Is Nature’s Palette | 31 Amelie Dutta Timeless Eternal Love! | Short Prose | 32 Neeta Doshi A Fragment Of My Shadow | Poetry | 38 Tanay

Nostalgia | Visual Art | 40 Manasi Chattopadhyay Through Train | Poetry | 41 Agnideepto Dutta Left Behind, But Not Forgotten | Visual Art | 42 Raaghav Chapa The Lives We Leave Behind | Short Prose | 43 Pradeep Hariharan Lost And Left Behind | Visual Art | 60 Soumita Bhattacharyya Skin Is A Battlefield | Poetry | 61 Saujanya Satyanarayan Shades Of Time | Visual Art | 63 Preranalakshmi Desharapu Whispers Of Time | Visual Art | 64 Preranalakshmi Desharapu Purchasing A Hand To Hold | Poetry | 65 Ankita

Poor Players | Short Prose | 67 Ghulam Mohammad Khan A Moment At Home | Visual Art | 77 Anirudh Prabhu Buying Happiness | Poetry | 78 PD Praapti

Kaapi Sessions My Grief Is A Garden Outside My Window | Creative Non-fiction | 81 Rachana Raman Echoes Of Play, Stilled By Time | Visual Art | 84 Soumita Bhattacharyya Weathered Rhythms: Heterotopology Of A Playground | Creative Non-fiction | 85 Vidya Mary George The Abandoned Observer | Visual Art | 87 Soumita Bhattacharyya Writing Story 2024: A Year Of Winters | 88 Supriya Rakesh

Nostalgic Campfire Nights | Visual Art | 92 Anirudh Prabhu The Tragic Return | Creative Non-fiction | 93 Rachana Raman

The Contributors | 96 The Teatotallers | 101

CHAI EXPRESSIONS

Soumita Bhatracharyya

Time Is Ticking Neeta Doshi Time is forever ticking, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock Once born, life ticks away like a time bomb You can waste it or make it significant You only live once, so live well Chase all your ambitions Do not be afraid Take a stab Go for it Try Try again Pause, resume Your life is your onus Live happily, live positively Time is precious, spend it wisely Do not ask others what to do or how Live, laugh, love hard, before you take a bow Time is forever ticking, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock

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Plea For A Moment Kalyani Nandagopal Time lays its bare hand upon my back and, awakening the dormant current under my skin, forces my blood to part. The frost of a broad palm and long, extended fingers seizes my spine and sends a million little pins crawling to the nape of my neck. Stunned, my eyes widen, my back stands erect, and my arms stiffen. How cruel is the sudden assertion that the sun has moved further across the sky, leaving behind a version of myself who once admired the vines on my neighbour’s back wall, when the sky was a little bluer.

The clock in my living room sits high on my wall, surveilling the room and keeping me in check. As its hands make their way around the face, I feel the day coming to a close, even though it is only two in the afternoon. I must make an effort to never err in looking directly at it, for it is already staring back at me with all the hours that have passed since I got up from my bed. Even on this face with no eyes, mouth, or nose, with no skin that wrinkles or lip that quivers, I see a clenched jaw and dilated pupils. The black and slender hands stand attentive, emboldened, and imposing, their presence so noticeable against the backdrop of an otherwise empty cream-coloured wall that it becomes the largest presence in the room. I struggle to lift my head up enough to look into eyes not even there, only to be scolded by the gradually darkening hands that have moved three more numbers ahead. I look at its grimaced face with its rigid hands and am confronted with the painting still sitting half-done on my desk. hardly is it alone, for it is also accompanied by the guitar leaning against my bedroom wall, which awaits to finally be played by more confident and calloused fingers, along with a notebook 2

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with stories only imagined and dreamed to completion, but never fully written. Above me hovers a rolodex of all that I have dared to venture upon without the persistence to see through to greatness my mediocrity plastered on the wall of my living room. It turns its absent nose up at me as it rushes past yet again.

Blindsided, I quickly realize that staying still is a privilege I can no longer afford, for the grains of sand only stop when all have hit the bottom. I wish a moment could last longer. I would like to live in a single moment, to define the limits of a moment on my own terms.

If only I could negotiate with time to give me just a while longer. I would like to tell it that I have the gruelling task of the whole world to accomplish, and the span of a moment, as it currently stands, is cruelly short.

I would like a moment to last long enough to fit a whole thought. If I could beg and bargain with time, I would insist that a moment be stretched long enough to accommodate an error in judgement, for rest from a chore, stopping to look out of my window and admire the sunflowers my neighbours planted last June finally tower above the fence.

With every hour that passes, I feel the temporal limits take up physical space, cornering me into the final few hours of my day.

My heartbeat quickens as I scramble to fit all of my pursuits into the ever-shrinking slice of day I have left over before the clock’s hands hold me hostage between them, threatening to crush me as they join together at midnight. My breath begins to staccato, for even a deep breath lasts more than just a measly moment. It is not yet ten past nine in the evening, and I yearn for the day to start anew, for the weight of having aged only a few hours starts pressing down on my chest. Tomorrow, I shall start my day at my desk, lest the act of waking up takes up too much of my morning.

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When Winter Steps Into My Town Madhumita Roy Every November, the sun leaves too soon Foggy evenings spread out like blotches of ink on water From the terrace, I watch how darkness engulfs my lazy town Slowly, yet entirely.

The tree tops in our garden, the stray dogs lying on a nearby lane, roadside camaraderie of unemployed young men All begin to swallow this embalming dark; The only streak of light comes from the closest tea stall With its promise of warmth In the ensuing season of cold.

A group of retired men visit the place before nightfall, Before my town decides upon an early slumber, To collect particles of togetherness which they save for their long, grey, solitary nights.

One by one they too would desert the street and go back.

Night crystallizes over all the houses, the park, the shops and the abandoned pavement; All of them eagerly wait for the next morning When the sun would paint them with a splash of colours again.

Winter brings colours to my town.

Winter wipes out all colours of my town.

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Survive Saujanya Satyanarayan When everything perishes, what survives?

I’ve asked this question to myself a million times, and never found an answer.

I’ve looked for it in people’s eyes and the promises left unfulfilled.

I’ve tried to seek it in the aftermath of disasters, in the rubble left behind.

I’ve searched for it in glances, in passing and in moments where breath is hitched.

When everything perishes, what survives?

Memory?

Fragrance?

The essence of a touch?

The tears of broken promises?

Hope for an unfinished dream?

When everything perishes, what survives?

The colour of someone’s eyes, The peace of seeing someone’s smile, The grip of someone’s touch, The way it makes you throw your shield to let it seep in, the touch.

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When everything perishes, what survives?

Carcasses of broken dreams.

Walls of painted sunrise.

Eulogies of silent cries.

Pillows with stains.

Postcards from mountains never seen.

Flowers pressed in papers of diaries.

When everything perishes, what survives?

A stone picked from the shore of a sea.

A sticky note with the reminder of a grail that never was attained.

A fear that never left your mind.

When everything perishes, what survives?

A walk on the corridors of a hospital.

Strumming of heartbeats.

Broken words whispered into your ears.

A crippling danger throttling.

A reality with a black screen.

When everything perishes, what survives?

You. You survive.

With all the stories.

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The Message From Above, The Peace Within Manasi Chattopadhyay

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4AM Philosophy Joyeeta Das

Do you ever feel like meeting people you shall never meet again?

Do you ever feel like talking to those you shall never speak to again? not the departed, but the living Perhaps you will speak with them, but not smile Perhaps you will smile for the sake of smiling, but not speak Perhaps you will neither smile nor speak, but nod when you see them How are they?

Are they happy after fragmenting you?

Are they happy after shattering your self-esteem?

What was their reason for doing so?

The last time I checked, they did not have any reason.

Then why did they fragment, shatter and grind you to dust?

To remind you, “For you were made from dust, and to dust you will return.”?

No To strengthen you?

That’s what they always say, but trust me, no!

They are shattered themselves; they could not digest your unfragmented completeness.

They need more of their kind, otherwise, they perish bit by bit, fragment by fragment...

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They need more of their kind, otherwise, they perish bit by bit, fragment by fragment...

Completeness is a threat to them But don’t you worry, they could only fragment you.

You still hold all of your fragments in place very elegantly!

They could not dismantle you, cause your willpower is stronger than any man-made adhesive You mustn’t forget You mustn’t regret You must keep rolling on, cause rolling to new horizons reinforces the adhesive in your will power This adhesive is also known to wipe away the cracking blemishes The blemishes only substantiate how chivalrously you fought to keep your fragments together How marvelously you kept generating the adhesive in your will power How meticulously you waited for the external vexation to stop while maintaining your inner calm That is why they could only fragment you here and there but could never dismantle your fragments according to their choice

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The Fisherman’s Voyage Amelie Dutta

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Joy In The Little Things Raaghav Chapa

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Remember Us Ekasmayi I see why it’s called a flyover as we soar above the city’s luminance which narrowly settles at second spot, to the joy I imagine is sprawled on my countenance My one friend at the helm, forging through time, masterfully steering us through this uncertainty with a direction that feels insistent, almost convincing us - we are where we should be.

The other friend, perched as the perpetual passenger but more insightful than any other who has ever chosen to lead the way, dashing all doubts and putting all my anxieties into a restful sway.

And I, watching magic unfurl before our eyes, I make sure to remember this history that lurks in the moment, in present’s disguise.

I breathe in the beats of every successive second, noting the folds in the moment’s membranes as if knowing it were life’s only purpose I record the ripples our laughs create as we lose sense of words and these tenuous roads, we barely navigate.

I remark at the sheer randomness that made us meet they roll their eyes in disdain, masking a demeanour of delight, more replete.

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As the music of a familiar tune blares into the winds, my friend’s grasp through the open window traces the emptiness of all that is outside and beyond us; I remember lines about how we are infinite And naturally, I disagree; it is not infinity we hope to find, in this moment, we are momentous, For whatever happens tomorrow, or in the years to follow, We are everything that was, is, and will be, Remember us.

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Yellow Tulips Ankita The renowned say, there’s poetry in every single inch of this cosmos, but I see no music in the yellow tulips sitting in front of me, resting inside an intricately carved china-stone vase.

I see only you, the reminiscence of you. the days those were yellow, calling only for life and light, when you were around The prayers I knelt for, in the Golden Temple, greedily asking for every bit of sunshine warming us just like the winter sun, the fire- held as the prime witness when we exchanged our “forever” vows.

I see no poetry in this old, bland universe, nor in the ‘its and bits’ of your scent sprinkled around the house, I see, only you, and these crocheted yellow tulips, which rests peacefully in the reminiscence of you!

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A Face Shaped By Time Raaghav Chapa

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White And Grey Saujanya Satyanarayan In the world full of colours, there still exists, the white & grey phases of life.

Where you just ponder upon the skies of melancholy.

Where your heart sings the song of half agony, half hope.

You start enjoying the pain as it comforts you to cumbersomeness.

You fantasize the wild aching solitude you live in.

You make the desolation your home.

You rest on the pillows of dry tears, and faded emotions.

The playlist of anxiety and trauma is on shuffle, And you dance to the gloomy tunes.

You vent out scribbles and poems of heartbreaks.

Though this is just a temporary fixation.

You are a step away from your home of serendipities.

Drink from the glass of hope and faith.

Let love slither through your bones.

Let the rhythmic words flow from your veins to the subdue poetry.

Be the moon in the tunnel of darkness, lay on the melody of overwhelming grace.

Embrace your scars.

You are flawless.

Turn on the playlist of an amber. Grey & White.

Enjoy every word of it.

Collect every ounce of ecstasy and store it in your heart.

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Come out as a novel of your rectitude.

And that’s where you belong, your sweet home.

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Leaves to Live By Swayama Sengupta Date: 6/12/24 I enjoy reading my diaries aloud. That’s right– diaries. They bear random thoughts on the last pages of long forgotten notebooks that have been pulled out while searching for an entirely different thing.

And the changes I get to behold there– from the language to the handwriting, the topics to the doodles above the margins– speak scores about the writer.

The only things that irks me, however, is the missing dates. Even this is lacking one…oh, no, this one has been hastily added after finishing the last line, so it’s not there yet. (Well, this was my last line before dinner, but being a student of literature, my heart would not permit me to decide for you). Sometimes I read a couple of pages from a book to get into the rhythm of writing– It works well for poems. It’s like continuing to run after jumping out of a moving train to avoid falling flat on your nose (though I do not recommend it).

Date: 3/5/2020 The threat to the virus outbreak has been such that it has made a lasting impression on us, consequently resulting in a void among people.

Last afternoon, my neighbour, Mrs Krishna, was talking to my mother from the balcony. She sobbed, “My brother came to see me today, but my husband sent him away. I asked him not to leave 18

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empty stomach, so I handed him a glass of water and a gulab jamun over the collapsible. I am heartbroken. I go over to my brother’s place and always have a great time there, but now he is not receiving my calls. Oh, why did he have to behave so harshly? How am I to apologize to my brother for this disrespectful gesture?”

Date: ______ Apart from the other information which is meant to be more significant than my scattered entries, what makes these notebooks loveable to me are the latter. They have stories to narrate, feelings to share, and a mind to talk to. So, I stop and listen to them– well, read them (happy?).

Strangely, it feels like a moment when, with a desperate urge to write, I, could no longer carry on after a while, dragging it all along to ruin. It’s as if the spell has been broken, the charm has disappeared, and it is time to look for the missing notebook again or return to the previous pages– the more deserving part of this notebook, for which it had originally been pulled out.

Date: 14/4/2021 People ought to say things that they ought not. Ma has been down with fever for the last five days; we were prescribed to take the COVID test and were shocked when she tested positive.

Accordingly, much was to be done: I was not to step out of my room (which I have been sharing with baba for the last five days) without double masks, Baba was to step in and do the household chores, Ma were to be given medicines, the maid was to be dismissed, sanitary 19

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bottles refilled, Ma was to call me over the phone from her room, I was to console Baba and keep a watchful eye on him (as ordered by his equally alert spouse), inquiries were to pour in– especially from the neighbours and we were to draw curtains and slam doors on curious eyes from the windows and pretentious loitering at the veranda.

It was yesterday that Baba asked me to call Deepa, my classmate, as she had undergone a fever last year. We were unaware of the test results till then. Deepa assured me that there was nothing to worry about apart from a bunch of precautions, which, despite being asked not to elaborate on, she did– with much vigour–as a firsthand experienced mind.

- Oh, you need not worry! Aunty won’t test positive.

- I know, it is just that I called you to talk about the condition as you’d been down with fever and tested negative, right?

- That’s right…um, may I say something? But you need to promise me that you’re not going to be anxious.

- Then don’t! I am not in a state to hear something that would not lead me to think about it because it would, so…

- Don’t be silly, Swayama. Aunty would be alright. You know, my family (most of them) had tested positive last year and they survived, especially my grandma. My brother and I knew that as neither of us had a temperature below 104 then, we won’t test positive. But aunty does have a fever which measured a 100 right?

So, hello, hello… you there, Swayama?

By the time she had been calling my name I had managed to distance the phone from myself. On hearing my name, I went back to where I left off: 20

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- Yeah, I am here, very much indeed.

- Yes, so that’s that, so you don’t worry. My mother had terrible symptoms like…, you there? Hello?

- Hi, Deepa, bye, talk to you later.

- Bye, remember all that I said, and don’t forget to feed her some kadha.

When baba told me to call Deepa on noticing that I was sitting all alone, stuck in Sense and Sensibility for the 3rd day, I almost yelled at the poor man. On getting to know what had passed, he was annoyed at such a liberty from the interviewee.

As for me, it had been impossible to restrain myself from crying. I cried in the bathroom, near the basin, wetted the towel while patting my face dry, and was silently shedding tears with my face covered with my t-shirt, when baba came in: Baba: Do you know where the knife…Good God! Why, what, oh, what happened?

Me: Sniffles Baba: Are you crying, oh! you are crying?!

Me: Y – Yes Baba: But why? Is it because of your conversation with Deepa?

I could only nod.

Baba: Then what’s wrong?

Me: Ma…a..a..a..a, ma has tested positive…a..a…a..

Baba: Oh! Okay…

Me: a..a..a…

Baba: I see, okay…

Me: a..a..a…

Baba: OKAY. Ma would be alright. But for that, we need to look after her. If you cry, which shoulder is left for me to lean on? One’s 21

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One’s there in that room while the other is here, in front of me. That won’t do. Remember, do not let trying times get on your nerves, they should strengthen you instead. We should be the ones leaning on you.

Encouraged with the pep talk, I was going to lie down for a while.

- What do you think you are doing?

- Trying to get some nap…

- GET UP THIS MOMENT AND HELP ME WITH THE KITCHEN! - I was thinking…

- QUICK. Date: 15/03/2023 This write up made me wonder what I think about, even when I am not trying to think. Sometimes, seeing precedes thoughts while at other times, it is just the thoughts.

I will always remember noticing an elderly man sneakily looking around the park only to sit on the swing. I would never forget the distant alleys of the familiar roads I pass by everyday, only to be guilty for noticing them for the first time. Could I ever hit the highways riding through the newly constructed flyovers without missing the old and longer routes? the ones with the small flower shops where I thought someone would definitely offer me a free flower but got shat on my head by a bird instead?

Speaking of which, I promise myself to count the number of 22

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flyovers everyday on my way to the university, but somehow, I lose count. But that does not stop me from remembering the memories associated to the places I commute through. There would be that alley which I had been yearning to take a stroll at but could not, the crossing where I noticed a woman standing out of her sunroof to beat the hit, the slopping street I named ‘Kalimpong’, the bus stop where I had noticed a handsome man waiting at around 12:15 for 5 days straight, the road where my driver told me that the speed should be strictly at 50 km/h only to find out that he drives there at no less than 80, the erstwhile pani puri thela where I saw him a few seconds after canceling my ride claiming to be “helplessly constipated” (but I get it, the pani does wonders), it’s just the abandoned thela that struggles to stand with its betel leaf stained legs now.

Date: ________ It’s been so many years yet I’ve not been able believe that you’re imprisoned in that frame. I hate you for smiling at me through that square room of yours, I hate you for leaving when I wasn’t home.

You are hateful to me for having appeared in my dreams as I keep on chasing you and you escape from my sight, you are a blow to me, Dadu.

Do you know that none of the elders informed me about your departure until I inquired after you on the phone? But how would you? if you had known you would not have left us.

So, Dadu, if hate is so powerfully consistent than love, then make me hate you– more in the way I have been doing, all these years.

Well, don’t think that I have gone bonkers; it is just that we have been asked to critically appreciate “My Grandmother’s House”, a poem by Kamala Das. As I went through the lines, I wondered: 23

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how could she have captured my anguish with such perfection? The condition of the granddaughter is such that she yearns to live with the thought of her deceased grandma and off wanders her mind into the darkness of the deserted house.

Forgive me, Dadu. If only you would have known how I felt after I talked back to you when you tried to advise me on something that day. Who knew then…?

Date: 17/5 I learned something new today – to tie a tie. I am no longer a schoolgirl neither does my university bid me wear a tie as a rule yet it was my dream come true to master the art of a long rope that earns you respect. To me, it is not just wearing a part of clothing but ensuring that I stand by myself as well as the fact that I would be able to meet my own needs. Is it then a metaphor for my future?

I think it is. Though the video of the tutorial promised five minutes yet it took me no less than an hour and a half to figure out the intricacies. The fun part lies in the direction you choose (rather follow) to take your tie.

Throughout my school, I looked up to people as divine personalities who were able to master this. Back then, neither had I ever wanted to do it on my own nor did I have internet to come to my rescue.

But now that I know how to do it on my own, I would love to buy a black tie to match my white shirt and black blazer. Besides, ma cooked chicken stew today. We had chicken after such a while.

Though my parents were tongue tied when I asked them whether they bought it for me, I know that they had. It’s not that I can read people’s minds but when it comes to them, I do. They cannot hide anything from me, #Ma’s favourite dialogue.

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Date: ______ I survived!

It’s been a hard day and we had skipped the evening meal due to extreme temperature fall. Baba had gone down to get some fresh air, ma was busy talking about the wedding invitation that we are yet to receive with my grandma, and I shouted my heart out, learning my lessons. It was then that I heard the dining room alight, dishes and bowls clatter and the microwave banged to silence – this was the prelude to the dinner call. Does it ever happen to you that you lose your appetite upon reading much? Well, I was in no mood to answer the signal but Ma’s repeated summons (ending with a warning tone) aroused me from my insolence.

On reaching the room, I inquired about baba, he had not returned from his usual strolls. I was resolute: no baba, no dinner. Why should I always be treated like a child even now? Why am I to dine before they do? “No, I am an adult and must act like one”, swearing so in my heart, I took refuge in the sofa picking up yesterday’s newspaper from the tea table. Now, people of wise disposition know that a hot pan is not to be stirred anymore than it already is, but those with growing up issues find this a little hard. I admit that I lifted the newspaper but was equally curious about the scene(s) on the other side of my ‘curtain’. I lifted my eyes, lowered the newspaper that had shielded my face from them and there they stood – amazed and aghast (so this is how Medusa’s victims must have looked like). It was then that I realized that someone was in grave danger.

- I am awfully hungry, let’s dine.

- I dared not meet Ma’s eyes or I would have betrayed a silly laugh admitting defeat. She filled my plate with fuming rice and was 25

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about to give a spoonful of fish curry when I prompted,” - Let me call baba.

- I have already called him; he would be here shortly.

- Then why don’t you join me?

- I am quite full seeing you seated here already, dear (with a dark mien).

- This is unjust, why would you not eat when he is not here yet?

You’re hungry and have waited for him long enough, please...

- Salad?

- Don’t try to distract me. So, what I was saying...

- Chilies?

- Oh please…

- It is entirely my wish to have my own dinner timings.

- Then why not my own?

- Tina’s exams are just at the door, you know, but you need not worry, your semesters come after ages, right?

Date: 11/8/2022 “What happiness! What unspeakable fulfillment!”

My graduation results were out yesterday– and I topped the department. It’s funny, that I have a wild guess that I topped in school too. Three years of labour, patience and perseverance have paid off.

It came true after years of rebukes, failures, and heart breaks back at school., I made it– I proved it– to myself and all those who 26

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thought it was silly to pursue Humanities after tenth grade.

My gratitude to my professors and friends knows no bounds. Even as I type these words, I can feel it. But know this–,if I am to quote Redmayne’s Oscars’ speech,“I am a lucky, lucky man.”, well, in this case, a student and a lady.

Ma and baba, this is all because of you. Thank you!

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Memories Of A Childhood Long Gone Raaghav Chapa

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Growing Up Preethy G.R. I was new—a lightweight human.

Small enough to fit into their mighty forearms.

A baby.

They would sit by my crib reading my eyes.

They were all ears — Just like the audience with their senses fixated on the stage.

The shows were always sold out.

Amma hoards tales of my childhood in her heart.

Clenched fists meant I was hungry.

A slightly longer cry asked for a lullaby.

Punching in the air meant I didn’t want to be left alone.

She remembers everything.

My silence after my first day at school echoed at my home.

She read it.

She knitted together words from my broken vocabulary and gave me a hug.

Slowly, the world of letters opened some more doors for me.

I got words.

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I could now make a cardigan of thoughts with them.

I could now share with ease about what goes on in my heart.

As I trod the years, the world stopped showing up.

The halls became empty.

I was welcomed with stares of indifference while they stomped on my words.

In my heart floats a cloud that keeps everything that went unheard, neatly stored as sentences and paragraphs.

They rain on me.

As I drench in that, I remind myself that I have grown up.

I have outgrown the crib and their hearts.

And they will read neither my silence nor my words.

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The Sky Is Nature’s Palette Amelie Dutta

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Timeless Eternal Love!

Neeta Doshi Chapter 1: Unearthing secrets Riya was in Mumbai. Her maternal grandmother had passed away and left her sprawling sea-facing bungalow to her. But Riya had to get back to New York to complete her film-making course and also be away from her estranged partner Raghav. The space was too personal to let out on rent, so she decided to just pack up everything for now and began the task of sorting her grandmother’s belongings, which exhausted her emotionally.

As she was rummaging through the drawers of an old desk, she came upon an intricately embroidered silk pouch. Curious, she untied the ribbon and gasped when a stack of yellowed papers fell out. She randomly picked a few and began inspecting them. The ink was faded, and the papers were crinkled with delicate cracks. They seemed to be some sort of hand written notes. She dusted off the chair and sat down with the first note.

Chapter 2: Love in the midst of war.

March 15, 1658 My Beloved Zeenat, The times are perilous with danger lurking at every corner.

Aurangzeb has avowed to seize the throne and has declared war against his own brothers. I fear that the future looks bleak for us, my love. As a soldier in Dara Shikoh’s army, I will have to fulfil my duty to fight, but my heart will always be with you, right beside the 32

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village pond where we first met.

I pray for your well-being and hope I can return to your warm embrace. The jasmine attar emanating from you, intoxicates me.

Your smiling face with deep brown eyes gives me the strength to persist. The soft melody of your laughter fills me up with joy. If we cannot unite in this life, I will keep looking for you in the next lives until I can make you mine forever.

Yours in every lifetime, Zafar The story of Zeenat and Zafar was a slice of historical romance, heartbreaking and poignant. It piqued Riya’s penchant for drama and she was immediately invested in getting to the very end of it.

She pulled out the next paper as she stretched her legs, took a sip from her coffee mug, adjusted her glasses and began reading.

Chapter 3: Love in the times of Rebellion August 18, 1857 My Beloved Vimla, Rebellion against the British is on in full swing. Gunpowder scent is floating in the air even as British try with all their might to capture our land. We are the children of our motherland, and we will not bow down despite their atrocities. The sepoy mutiny led by Mangal Pandey has ignited hope in our hearts. I wish to join this fight to free our motherland from the clutches of the British reign. Freedom seems near my dear.

As I march ahead, I’m leaving my heart behind with you, in Kanpur.

Your last cuddle and the affection of your touch as we said goodbye is still fresh in my memory and keeps me going. I hope to be able to see you again and hold your hands till eternity. Yet, this war seems 33

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like a do-or-die situation that may separate us forever. I will not let this war diminish my love for you, and I hope you will not forget our love either. Let us promise to cherish our memories and carry our love in our hearts until we meet again. And meet we shall, even if not in this lifetime.

Yours eternally, Rajveer The letters had cast a spell on Riya. She couldn’t put them down and felt connected to the lovers while reading their love letters.

The love between them was so intense and pure that it gave her goosebumps. “Wars and mutinies may come and go but love is eternal” sighed Riya as she gently tugged at the next letter.

Chapter 4: Divided by Politics, United by Love September 14, 1947 Dearest Farida, We are free at last. But are we truly free? The British have gone, leaving behind so much chaos and pain. Independence has brought upon us partition, which has torn us apart. Lahore and Delhi are now in different countries. The familiar streets are taken up by strangers and there is so much violence all around. Everyone is scared and fearful of the future, and every thought of you stings my heart as I imagine you alone in that big house in Lahore, while I am here in Delhi, unable to reach you.

I was very confident that backed by our love, we could sail through all of life’s trials and tribulations. But this physical division between land and hearts has created an insurmountable chasm. Every moment I breathe, I dream of crossing the border to be with you, to hear your anklets tinkling as you run into my arms. I wonder if that 34

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day will ever come, but I will never stop loving you. I shall keep writing to you to let you know how much I want to be with you. The partition can keep us apart only as long as we live. If we cannot meet now, I’ll wait for you the in the next life too!

Forever yours, Arif As the briny drops trickled down her cheeks, Riya reminisced reading about the Partition in history books. These letters brought to life the pains caused by it. The separation of Arif and Farida hurt like an open wound.

Chapter 5: Future Love July 28, 2125 My Dearest Tara, The Earth is not the same. The seas have risen, the trees have vanished, the air is thick with chemicals, and the cities remain a mere shadow of their earlier existence. There is too much chaos and disorder all around. Amidst all this mess, you are my calming factor, my solace.

As you know, the “genetic purity” law was enacted yesterday which forbids us to marry. It is so heartbreaking to see some ignorant government officials deciding our fate. They do not understand that love cannot be confined by science or politics. We will fight for our right to choose who we love.

I cannot wait to escape to a place where we can live together. Until then, these coded letters sent on encrypted channels will keep us connected. I love you, Tara, remember that always. I will find you, no matter what, in this universe or a parallel one. But we will meet, of that, I am sure.

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With all the love that my heart can hold, Ishaan Riya was trying to wrap her head around the new world order that Ishaan’s letter described and was flummoxed at how love remained a battlefield across all time spans. The situations and times were different but the passion to fight for love remained the same. The love letters across centuries and worlds were a testament to the endurance of love.

Chapter 6: The Revelation One by one, she laid out all the letters on the desk and examined them further. Though names and handwritings were different, each letter carried the same essence and had a strange familiarity. Each letter echoed the same story and sentiments through different voices and across different eras.

She was about to fold the silk pouch when she realised there was one more paper inside it which hadn’t fallen out. Trembling in anticipation, she fished it out.

August 30, 2024 Dear Riya, I want to let you know that I love you a lot and always have. A small tiff cannot uproot the deep love in my heart. Ours is not an ordinary love. We have been together across generations and ages. Our souls are one and we will always find each other.

Our love is pure, eternal and unbreakable. We survived through wars, rebellions and apocalypses and nothing kept us apart. I believe in true love and know that love is the only constant and the only truth that can stand the test of time. I will wait for you, right 36

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where you left me.

With all my love, Raghav Epilogue Riya stared at the last letter. She could not believe her eyes. Her body was quivering as tears rolled down her cheeks. It was not just a letter, but a love story that spanned centuries of love unbound by time and space, and she was a leading character of that story.

She immediately called up Raghav. They had fought over a minor difference of opinion and had been avoiding each other. The letters made her realise that love was not just about self, but about the other as much and it was not merely a feeling but a commitment of heart and soul.

“Hello Raghav, I want to let you know that I love you a lot and always have,” began Tara as soon as Raghav answered.

“Phew,” sighed Raghav, with relief as he winked at his cat and said aloud, “this was the only way to appease my drama crazy wife!”

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A Fragment Of My Shadow tanay following the wafer crumbs the cat reaches the room and finds me snoring—unkempt beard and an overgrown moustache go with the black and white checkered shirt I wear almost as a routine she tries to lick the peanut stuck somewhere in the bush on my face that’s how I woke up the last week and its similar today the curtains drawn to a close for I don’t wish to witness the sun in all its glory rather indulge in a weird pose hardly swaying at the moment, and when it does— goes east to west and back and forth in a particular way even her fur seems rough by the touch of it—scratchy to be fair I bear the rashes she’s managed to scrape through all this while just to be entertained by her exotic palate of interest— fish flapping, moths subdued, or a cockroach half chewed up essentially brought to me as a gift of sorts how she gets to my nerves—purring relentlessly inside of a box all of it though a tad amusing, I’ll pretty soon grow bored of ooh, sure its hopeless most of the time just as the cricket bat from when I was young, with termites feasting on its handle— so much that you snort up the dust as you breathe, no matter how frail I’d be lying if I said ‘never drew me close—lush grass in the backyard’ it’s a forgotten memory kept till date somewhere in the 38

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attic strangled to suffocation in cobwebs where the mice squirmingly roam barely leaving for me any room to be there again the knob on the door resists being rotated it does let the light seep in though at times just to check on me I don’t bother looking him in the eye, for he’ll laugh at best or probably stay and eat with me in my nightmares— the lingering rust and widening cracks worry about it but don’t say it to me any day although have seldom been someone to take a blow for the team unless it was my turn— to put it plainly then why do I crawl under the blanket thinking of the sun brightening up my room—where I exist why can’t I consider the possibility of — looking at my shadow consuming the floor while a mere fragment of it—is actually me the purring would fade away as have the squeaking mice of the old and I’ll be done with my own ways in time of screaming quiet which in my head— allures the thought of spending my days watch the clock tick by the second where stagnant with the fidgety hormones is my sole will for it will furnish the simmering heat— mocking my slightly feverish body for morbid insides never whole as the sink’s water runs through its flowing chore till the tank’s all empty and water isn’t needed anymore I’m just a tired man a fragment of my shadow— who’ll never dare to peek through the door 39

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Nostalgia Manasi Chattopadhyay

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Through Train Agnideepto Dutta Through train as it rushes past the eyeThrough the uncountable windows of life and the faces boxed within.

But if you fix your gaze, blink upon one, There’s that one face that leaves impression on the mind, Thoughts mellifluous.

Even then, that One rushes by and the announcement rings through the air, “Through train would be passing from Platform No. 2.

Please keep safe distance.”

And the daily local takes you home...

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Left Behind, But Not Forgotten Raaghav Chapa

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The Lives We Leave Behind Pradeep Hariharan The cab was stuffy despite the air conditioning. Siddharth sat beside me, leaning his forehead against the window, palms pressed flat against the glass. I brushed a loose strand of hair behind my ear and watched him, his soft, round face, his mouth slightly open as he hummed quietly to himself. Even though he is eleven, his reactions are still those of a toddler’s, innocent, almost ethereal, his eyes locked on to oblivion, deep in his own world. His humming broke off intermittently into sharp, piercing screams as he shook his head from side to side, repetitive motion jarring in its intensity. As the therapists told me, it was just a usual quirk, acclimatising himself to a new situation. The driver’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, looking at me.

“Just two more therapy sessions this week, Siddhu,” I murmured, more to myself than to him. He wouldn’t respond, couldn’t respond, he just continued staring at the streets, his little body swaying gently with the car’s motion. We started this exhausting routine of shuttling between therapy centres when he was diagnosed with autism at the age of two.

I glanced at the cab driver’s rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of his eyes narrowed in annoyance, the same look I’d seen hundreds of times before from strangers who thought they understood my life better than I did. As we approached the apartment complex, the driver tapped ‘ride complete’ on his app. I suddenly noticed it, my eyes darted down. A dark patch spread across Siddhu’s trousers, its edges creeping wider, and the sharp tang of urine filled the air. A hollow dread formed in my chest. Not now. Not here.

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I remembered the last time I’d been forced out of a store for a similar ‘accident.’ A woman had looked down at me with narrowed eyes and said, ‘Some people shouldn’t have children.’ “Madam!” the driver’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and tinged with disgust. He turned in his seat, one arm slung over the headrest, glaring at me. “Your kid’s...”

Here’s a refined version with smoother transitions and enhanced clarity: “I know, I know!” I said, fumbling for tissues, desperately trying to contain the damage. But the driver wasn’t satisfied. His face twisted with fury as he yanked the door open and stepped out, gesturing wildly before I could even apologise.

“Get out! Get out of my car!” he shouted, his words slicing through the silence, echoing off the walls of the street. Neighbours’ heads popped up from balconies, and curtains twitched as unseen eyes watched the spectacle unfold.

“Please,” I stammered, leaning over Siddhu, and shielding him with my body. The driver’s rage boiled over as he stormed to the other side and yanked Siddhu’s door open, his gestures sharp and threatening. Siddhu sat still, motionless in the chaos, his wide eyes unblinking and distant.

“He didn’t mean to…” I began, my voice trembling, but the words caught in my throat, powerless against the storm of the driver’s anger.

“Is he a mental case? My new car, I just removed the plastic covers last week!” The driver’s voice rose higher, drawing attention. “You can’t just ...Get out,” he spat, stepping back. “Just... get out.”. I 44

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searched for currency notes in my purse, grabbed a few 500 rupee notes, and placed them on the seat. “Sorry Anna! He is a special needs child, please keep this for cleaning your car.”

The street had gone still, the air thick with judgment. Every breath I took felt like a spotlight of stares around, illuminating our raw, ugly truth for everyone to see.

I half-carried, and half-dragged Siddhu out of the cab, my heart hammering in my chest. His feet scraped against the pavement, his weight pulling me down, but I didn’t let go. I couldn’t. Not until we were safely inside, away from the stares and the whispers. The elevator ride up was agonisingly slow. I held Siddhu’s arm, fingers digging into his soft skin, my breaths coming in ragged gasps.

When we finally reached our floor, I stumbled out, fumbling with the keys, tears blurring my vision.

The moment I closed the door behind us, inside our flat, I slid down slowly, my back scraping against the rough wooden panels until I hit the floor, burying my face in my hands. The sobs tore out of me, ragged and choking, each one a desperate gasp for air. I pressed my palms against my mouth, trying to stifle the noise, trying to smother the shame clawing at my chest. The apartment was too quiet, too still. No one came to comfort me. No one would. I cried until I was empty, until my body was a hollow shell, drained of everything. I couldn’t summon the strength to clean him up or change his clothes.

Siddhu stood there with the wet stain on his pants, his distant gaze, unchanging. Not understanding. Never understanding.

The weight in my body became unbearable, and as my head tilted back against the wall, exhaustion overtook me. My eyes fluttered shut, and just before sleep claimed me, I saw him walking away on 45

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his toes, his steps uneven and clumsy.

Eventually, I woke up. I lifted myself off the floor, and my tears dried, leaving me hollow and numb. I wiped my face and took deep, shuddering breaths as I tied my hair. The flat was eerily silent, the kitchen clock ticking loudly.

Lunch, I thought dully. It was past lunchtime. Siddhu hadn’t eaten since leaving home in the morning. The therapist warned me about keeping a strict schedule and routine, with no delays or disruptions.

I dragged myself to my feet, every muscle aching, and shuffled to the kitchen.

The sight that greeted me stopped me cold.

Milk pooled in sticky white puddles, mingling with the pulpy mess of trampled fruit. Bananas, apples, and grapes lay strewn across the tiles, crushed under small footprints. Messy countertop, smeared in sticky streaks, and little handprints. It looked like a hurricane had torn through the kitchen. I stared at the mess, my mind blank. The pristine kitchen I had cleaned meticulously the night before was in ruins. Siddhu had already wreaked havoc, grabbing anything in sight for his lunch.

For a moment, anger surged through me, sharp and unrelenting, like bile rising in my throat. It tasted bitter, a resentment so raw and intense that it threatened to spill over. It wasn’t fair. Why was I trapped in this endless caregiving cycle while Manu travelled the world, attended conferences, and built a life and career others respected? I have the same qualifications. Yet I am exhausted, invisible, and drowning here.

He was in some European city, probably sipping coffee at a quaint

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café, chatting with colleagues. His life kept expanding, supposedly building wealth for our future, while mine shrank entirely consumed

by Siddharth’s needs. And then the smell hit me.

The familiar sharp, putrid stench made my stomach churn. I turned and walked, following the source.

The bedroom door was ajar. I pushed it open, already dreading what I would find.

Siddharth stood stark naked in the middle of the room, tearing the newspaper into pieces, then picking them up and tearing them again, consumed in his never-ending cycle. His little feet were smeared in yellowish brown and the floor beneath him stained.

Feces. Everywhere. He had stomped through it, spreading it across the floor, under the door, over the cot, even the mattress.

“No,” I whispered, backing away. “No, no, no.” The mess was real.

The stench was real.

Something inside me snapped.

Before I knew what I was doing, I was screaming, my voice hoarse and wild. “Why?” I shrieked, grabbing his shoulders, and shaking him. “Why do you do this...” I broke off, sobs tearing through me.

Siddhu whimpered; his wide eyes wet with unshed tears. I stared at him, breath hitching. What was I doing?

With a choked sob, I let go, stumbling back. My hands were shaking, my chest tight. He stood there, trembling, not understanding. He never understood.

I cried for myself, for Siddhu, for the life I had lost. I cried until I 47

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couldn’t anymore, and then the world blurred around me.

When I finally pulled myself together, the mess was still there. The stench was still there. I didn’t feel anything. I cleaned up Siddhu and got him into fresh clothes. Numbly, I grabbed a cloth, and a bucket of soapy water with antiseptic, and began to clean mechanically.

Finally, I cleaned my hands, stumbled to the kitchen, grabbed the milk carton, and poured two glasses. “Here,” I whispered, handing Siddhu his glass.

He drank slowly, each gulp punctuated by soft hiccups. Tears pricked my eyes again, but I blinked them back.

I sank onto the couch after putting Siddhu to bed. My body felt heavy. With Siddhu asleep, silent, sleeping like an angel, the entire world seemed to contract around me.

I shuddered, guilt slicing through me like a knife. What kind of mother am I? What kind of monster?

My therapist, in the last session, had asked me to journal whenever I had that suffocating feeling in my chest. To write it all down, pour my anguish onto the page and let it drain away. Maybe she was right.

I forced myself up and shuffled toward the small study desk nook wedged between the living room and bedroom. Above the desk, the puja shelf glimmered softly, the flickering lamp casting a gentle glow on Lord Krishna, his serene smile unchanged as he played the flute. The desk lay buried under old bills, medical reports, and therapy evaluations.

I sat down and opened the book, to a fresh blank page. My gaze drifted to the calendar card with Guruji’s calm face, holding a hand 48

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up in blessing, pinned to the wall above the desk with the months of 2009. The year I got married, the one my parents had bought from the Guruved ashram.

Ah, my beloved parents. Always so wise, so “practical”.

The memory of last summer lingered. Siddhu and I stood at the doorway, his small fingers twisting in mine, soft and restless.

Amma’s voice cut through from the kitchen, sharp and matter-offact. “Don’t take him outside,” she said, her lips pressed into a thin line. “People don’t need to see… all that.”

I swallowed hard, the scream rising in my throat silenced by habit.

Achan sat by the window, hidden behind his newspaper. Without looking up, he cleared his throat. “She’s right, Omana. Why bring attention to yourself? To us?”

Siddhu’s gaze shifted to a streak of sunlight spilling through the door. He stepped toward it, lifting onto his toes as though trying to reach it, his soft hum filling the room. Behind me, Amma shifted uncomfortably, her unease prickling like static in the air.

“You can go later,” she said quickly, her tone softening suddenly.

“When you’re alone.”

I knelt beside Siddhu, brushing a curl from his forehead. “It’s okay,” I murmured. “We’ll go later.” His hum quieted, his wide eyes meeting mine.

The sunlight stretched across the floor, but the house walls seemed to close in around us. I blinked the memory away and looked at the Guruved calendar again. My mother had marked important dates of 49

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that year in different colours. August 14th was circled in bright red ink, our wedding engagement date!

I pressed the pen to the page. Perhaps if I could just capture this darkness in words, I could stop it from consuming me.

Slowly, deliberately, I began to write.

September 15th, 2024 I keep thinking back to August 14th, 2009 - our engagement day.

I had taken a few days off from work and arrived at my parents’ house the evening before, exhausted from the long commute. The next morning, the house buzzed excitedly, Amma bustling around since dawn. The rich scent of cardamom and ghee filled the air.

“Omana, don’t just stand there!” she called, smiling. “Go change.

They’ll be here any minute.” I went inside.

I remember standing in front of the mirror in my room, slipping on the silk blouse and underskirt, feeling them hug my young body. My waist was slender, and my skin was glowing. I felt alive and beautiful, a rare pride blooming within me, unfamiliar yet exhilarating. The saree’s silk glided over my skin as I draped it carefully.

My father’s eyes lit up when I stepped into the living room. He smiled a rare, genuine smile. “There’s my girl,” he said softly. “You look… beautiful, Omana.”

I forced a smile, delicate as if it might shatter under the weight of his pride.

The doorbell rang, breaking our moment. My parents exchanged quick, nervous glances and suddenly, they were everywhere, at once straightening cushions, and smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles in 50

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my saree.

The door opened, and there stood, Manu, his parents, his sister, and others, the family that would soon become mine. Manu, a tall man, neat in a pressed blue shirt, was not a stranger but not quite familiar either. We had met at a concert through a common friend in Chennai, and afterwards, our dinner together was awkward. He spoke more than I would have liked, a lot curious about my family.

We met again at the movies, at restaurants, and at the beach, each time feeling a bit more familiar, but I never thought it would lead to a proposal.

However on the day of the engagement, his smile was different, unguarded, almost boyish, and his eyes, kind and hopeful, caught mine, making my heart stutter. I found myself staring, caught offguard. “Welcome! Please, sit down,” Achan’s voice boomed…

I jerked back, putting the pen down. I glanced up at the calendar card, my eyes narrowing. With a deep breath, I closed my eyes.

“What has life come to, am I losing my mind?” I whispered, the word slipping out before I could stop it. “Only if I could go back in time, only if I had a choice, and if I could find my voice.”

The date, 14th inside the August box, seemed to pulse from the round red marking, almost glowing. Lord Krishna’s idol seemed to vibrate to life.

A loud, vibrating thud reverberated through the air, and, impossibly, the world shifted.

My eyes stayed closed, but the vibrations came to a halt. The familiar 51

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scent of jasmine and wisps of tulsi. It wrapped around me, light and intoxicating. I opened my eyes slowly, my heart hammering. I was back at my parent’s house!

I glanced down at myself. My body was slim, and my hands were young, smooth, and unscarred. The saree I wore was the same one I remembered, deep wine-red with golden embroidery. My hair was thick and lustrous, falling in heavy waves around my shoulders.

“I’m here,” I whispered, the words trembling. “I’m really… back to that day.”

I glanced at the TV, the familiar news anchor’s voice echoing softly.

I saw the date in the corner: August 14th, 2009. It felt impossible, surreal. And then I heard it.

“Omana, come here and sit down!” Mother’s voice, bright and clear, rang out from the living room calling me to join the engagement ceremony.

My breath caught. For a moment, I froze, my body refusing to move. This was it.

The moment that had haunted me for years. With a deep, steadying breath, I smoothed down my saree and walked out of the room, my heart pounding in my ears. I made my way down the narrow hallway. And then I saw them.

Manu stood near the entrance, flanked by his cousins and sister. For a heartbeat, time seemed to stand still. I could see the faint flicker of recognition in his eyes, the way his smile softened, and grew tentative. It was a look I had seen a thousand times before, a look I had seen a thousand times before, a look that had once made my 52

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heart skip a beat.

Although now, standing there in the doorway, all I felt was… calm.

The boyish smile made him look younger and more vulnerable. I felt a pang of something - regret, nostalgia, maybe even sadness. I pushed it aside. This wasn’t about him. This wasn’t about us. This was about me.

I stepped forward, glancing around the room. My parents watched us with barely concealed anticipation, their smiles bright and hopeful. Manu’s family looked equally eager, their eyes flicking back and forth between us.

“I’m sorry,” I said quietly, forcing myself to meet their gazes. “I need to speak to Manu. Alone.”

A ripple of surprise swept through the room. My mother’s smile faltered, confusion clouding her features. “Now?”, but then she nodded slowly, glancing at my father, who looked equally bewildered.

“Yes, uh, of course,” she murmured, gesturing towards the balcony.

“Go ahead.” I turned on my heel, barely waiting for Manu to follow.

I leaned against the balcony railing.

Manu stood beside me, his expression puzzled but patient. “What’s wrong Omana?” he asked softly, his voice tinged with concern.

“You look unhappy. Did my parents or sister say something wrong?

Or did I …”

I shook my head slowly. “No.” “Manu… you’re a good man, a kind man. I know you like me… I 53

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know my parents want this marriage to happen, yours too…, but” He blinked, confusion darkening his eyes. “But?” I whispered, with my voice breaking. “I cannot marry you.” The silence that followed was absolute.

“What? Why?” he asked finally, his voice rough. “Why after all the arrangements are done, I took the week off for this ceremony. I thought… we had an instant connection. I thought we were soul….”

“I know,” I murmured, cutting him off gently. “And maybe… in another life, it would have worked. Maybe we would have been happy together.”

I saw the flicker of pain in his eyes, the way his shoulders tensed.

“Then why?” he repeated, his voice barely a whisper.

“Because…” I glanced down, my fingers twisting the edge of my saree. The words tangled in my throat, heavy and unspoken. “If I say yes now, I’ll… disappear.” I looked up, meeting Manu’s confused gaze, and forced myself to keep speaking. “There’s so much I haven’t done yet. So much I still need to figure out. If I… marry now, I’ll lose it all. I’ll lose me.” I held his gaze, my voice steadying as I spoke louder, “I have to choose me, Manu. For once in my life, I need to put myself first.”

He stared at me, his expression raw and unguarded. I could see the hurt, confusion, and unspoken questions, but I also saw something else, a tinge of understanding and acceptance.

“Okay,” he whispered finally, his voice trembling. “Okay. I do not know what happened. You sound like a different person. It hurts. It does! I dreamt of a wonderful life together with you, but if this is 54

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what you want, I will respect it.”

A sob rose in my throat, but I swallowed it down. I reached out, touching his arm lightly. “Thank you,” I whispered. “Thank you for understanding,” I offered him a gentle, tremulous smile.

He nodded slowly, his gaze lingering on mine for a long, aching moment. And then, without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving me standing alone on the balcony. I watched him go, my heart heavy and light all at once. This was it. My choice. My life.

I stood there, staring out at the world beyond, I heard the murmurs grow louder, I walked from the balcony into my room, ignoring the people in the way, and their opinions, locking the door behind me and I fell on my bed covering my head under the pillows, silencing the noise around me. I went into a deep meditative sleep, a partial consciousness amidst the strong vibrations around me. I realised that I am going into a new reality.

The vibrations stopped, and calm prevailed, I kept my eyes closed for some more time. Slowly, I sat up, the quilt slipping off my shoulders. The unfamiliar room was spacious, the air cool and crisp.

Pale moonlight filtered in through the curtains, casting long, soft shadows across the polished wooden floor. Everything was clean and pristine, the furniture sleek and modern, the surfaces uncluttered. It felt… strange. Unfamiliar. My hands are soft, I brought them close to my nose, the fragrance of lotion. My face is fresh.

My attire was comfortable, my bed did not reek of urine and moist mould.

I closed my eyes again to recollect my thoughts.

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dishevelled, my eyes wide and startled.

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August 14th, 2009. The day that had changed everything.

The spring in the bed creaked softly as I swung my legs over the edge, my bare feet sinking into the plush carpeting. I could see my reflection in the large glass windows across the room, my hair dishevelled, my eyes wide and startled.

Where was I? I rose slowly, the cool night air brushing against my skin. The walls were painted a soft cream, and adorned with framed certificates and photographs. My name stared back at me from every plaque: Omana Srinivasan, Senior Engineer, Oracle Cloud Infrastructure.

I took a step closer, looking at the elegant, polished lettering. I turned, scanning the rest of the vast room. The coffee machine is in one corner, and a personal office in another.

The shelves were lined with neatly arranged books, technical manuals, data engineering books, and sleek awards glinting in the low light.

Somehow, impossibly, I had slipped into a different reality. A reality where I had said no to the marriage and where I had chosen myself.

I glanced down at my hands, smooth, unscarred, free of the small nicks and callouses from cleaning up endless messes. No more painful scars from Siddhu’s nails digging into my skin when he was nervous. My hands were spotless now, young, soft, untouched by his struggles.

I took a step back, my heart pounding. This wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t some twisted fantasy.

This was my life.

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I turned, spinning around the bedroom, my pulse racing. The wardrobe closet doors were open, revealing neat rows of stylish clothes, blouses, skirts, and tailored jackets. A sleek, laptop rested on the bedside table.

A phone lay beside the lamp. I used my fingerprint to unlock it, and Slack messages buzzed from the offshore India team. My eyes darted to the date in the corner of the screen - September 15th, 2024, San Francisco! The weather read 60.8 Fahrenheit, clear skies.

This… this was my new world!

I glanced out the window, my gaze sweeping over the glittering San Francisco skyline, adorned by the moon sinking toward the horizon.

The city stretched out before me, a sea of lights and shadows, vast and limitless. And for the first time in what felt like forever, I wasn’t trapped. I wasn’t drowning.

I was free, the view was breathtaking, and yet something felt… off.

Empty. Like I was missing something vital, something essential from my body.

I turned back to the desk, my gaze drifting to the sleek, laptop.

With trembling hands, I opened it. My fingers flew over the keys, typing the name almost automatically: Manu Ramanathan.

The search results filled the screen, with dozens of links and images flashing. My breath hitched as I clicked on the first article, eyes scanning the text. Manu Ramanathan and his wife, 57

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Dr Nithya Manu, were featured prominently in the local news.

They had built a successful organic farm in Coimbatore, focusing on sustainable agriculture and innovative farming techniques.

Together, they were known as the “organic farming influencer couple,” sharing their journey on social media, teaching others how to grow their own produce and live more sustainably.

I played a video on their page. His voice drifted through the speakers, rich and familiar. “Nithya and I have always believed in growing what we eat, in nurturing the land…” I pressed pause, his face frozen mid-smile. My fingers hovered over the ‘Message’ button beside his name, trembling. What would I say?

‘Do you miss me?’ I knew the answer before I could type a single word. He was happy. A sharp pang shot through me, raw and unexpected. He had moved on. He had built a new life.

I turned back to the bookshelf, my eyes catching on the golden plaques and neatly stacked books, glowing under the harsh white light of the desk lamp. Instinctively, I reached toward the switch, my fingers brushing the wall. Siddhu hated this light. It made him flap his hands and hum louder, trying to drown out whatever chaos the brightness brought to his mind. I always switched it off when he was near.

My hand stopped mid-air.

I didn’t need to switch it off. The room was silent. Too silent. No humming, no hands flapping, no little body pacing in the corner.

The quiet pressed into my chest, cold and heavy.

I let my hand drop to my side as it hit me—he wasn’t there. I didn’t have to dim the light for anyone. A strange, hollow ache 58

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unfurled in my chest, spreading slowly, filling every breath I took. The golden plaques on the shelf glinted back at me, their glow mocking the void I couldn’t name.

I pressed a hand to my mouth, fighting back a sob. This was what I wanted, wasn’t it? A life free of the pain, the heartbreak?

In the silence, I thought I heard it, a faint hum, so soft it could have been the wind. My breath hitched as Siddhu’s face flickered in my mind, his big, innocent eyes searching mine, his small hands clutching at the air. I could almost feel the warmth of his restless fingers brushing against my arm. The lilting tune of “Omana thingal kidavo…”, but the hum faded as quickly as it had come, swallowed by the emptiness that surrounded me. My vision blurred, and the ache in my chest tightened. Siddharth didn’t exist.

Perhaps, with this decision, I had freed my dear Siddhu, from the pain, the agony, and the harsh judgments of this cruel world.

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Lost And Left Behind Soumita Bhattacharyya

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Skin Is A Battlefield Saujanya Satyanarayan I was never graceful enough to offer my goodbyes in neatly wrapped apologies; I was reckless and broke every new possession that become a little too precious to me.

I crossed my heart and made promises too hard to keep: now every beat sounds like a tear drop falling on porcelain floors.

With every broken promise my words die a thousand deaths; I danced to the sound of the clock ticking away the time of my life that I would conjure up in my poetry.

They called me crazy– crazy for loving myself when I had so miserably failed at loving you.

The ceiling of my room is adorned with glow in the dark stars; you taught me about constellations when we stuck them together.

My photo albums are memorials for dead memories, and I attend one each summer wearing your scent and the dress I am too weak to throw away.

Breathing isn’t easy when each breath chokes you from within.

Living isn’t easy when you’re digging graves every morning for all the dreams that will never come true.

My world is a desert of dried flowers. If the wind blows a little too much, my wind chimes hush; they fall silent– waiting, waiting, for the storm that is yet to come.

I am the lost love letters of the boys who once loved me, and now 61

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I am best friends with their brides. I bury my hatchets under their mistletoe’s, and I dig up my secrets from under their bed.

I don’t have a home. And if you ever want to look for me, you can find me sitting in between the tornadoes that turned my cities to crumbs.

I climb mountains of lies– falling, falling every time someone tells me that I’m too broken to belong here.

When anyone says that I’m too easy to be with and difficult to leave behind, I go back home without knocking their doors.

I was never graceful enough to clean up the messes I caused. I delved in it, and memories lay all around me like broken pieces of vase.

I’m a reckless chapter in a history book where wars never end and the bombs never stop falling.

My skin is a battlefield and I’ve seen way too many words die in this world where I taught them to breathe.

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Shades Of Time Preranalakshmi Desharapu

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Whispers Of Time Preranalakshmi Desharapu

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Purchasing A Hand To Hold Ankita Nothing matters more than us holding hands, travelling together for miles to come.

If there is such a bond for sale, I would immediately pick it up from the department store I would pay with every penny I own, and not less, for the value of a consort is best known only by those who have already lost one halfway…

And to add on I have even lost myself along with you.

But look at the perplexity of time, for it insists on marching forward without a stop, or even a break.

It gets crueler day by day for the world is not kind to the breathing but lifeless ones, lingering its way…

So, to make it a little bearable, a little kinder, I beg of time and the creator of these perplexities to invent a bond that would be on sale For I’ll purchase not one, but two Maybe three, or even four Cause backups are better than to have to suffer this prodigious amount of pain in search of not you but to find myself again.

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Nothing matters more than us holding hands, travelling together for miles to come.

If there is such a bond for sale, I would immediately pick it up from the department store I would pay with every penny I own, and not less, for the value of a consort is best known only by those who have already lost one halfway…

And to add on I have even lost myself along with you.

But look at the perplexity of time, for it insists on marching forward without a stop, or even a break.

It gets crueler day by day for the world is not kind to the breathing but lifeless ones, lingering its way…

So, to make it a little bearable, a little kinder, I beg of time and the creator of these perplexities to invent a bond that would be on sale For I’ll purchase not one, but two Maybe three, or even four Cause backups are better than to have to suffer this prodigious amount of pain in search of not you but to find myself again.

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Poor Players Ghulam Mohammad Khan The two polythene bags in his hands, one bulging with vegetables and the other with fruits, felt like anchors pulling his drooping body deeper into despair. Once teeming with life, the marketplace now felt barren and suffocating—just like the world beyond it. Nothing fascinated him anymore.

By the time he reached the end of the lane, where the din of traffic merged with the rumble of the bridge, he stopped to catch his breath.

Across the bridge, a cluster of poplars caught his weary gaze. Their golden leaves rustled against the crisp autumn air, trembling as if they knew they were moments away from falling.

Autumn is tired.

And so must be Sisyphus, he mused bitterly.

Once, books had been his sanctuary. Now, they only unsettled him, whispering truths he’d rather ignore. He dreaded returning home to his wife—she had become a shadow of herself, endlessly waiting for their absent son. A sudden, dark thought gripped him: how easy it would be to step into the river and dissolve into its silent embrace.

The notion was fleeting but powerful, and he clenched his fists around the bags as if to anchor himself to the moment. The sight of falling leaves angered him inexplicably as if they mocked his waiting. He left the spot abruptly, feeling the weight of his existence grow heavier.

“When you suffer, you think too much,” he muttered under his breath. “Suffering is indispensable. You can’t blame attachments— 67

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they’re as inescapable as breathing. The closer the attachment, the deeper the wound.”

His thoughts churned as he trudged homeward, his gait unsteady, almost drunk with despair. The sight of his mansion, standing proudly by the shimmering lake and framed by ancient mountains, should have brought him comfort. Instead, it mocked his emptiness.

The flower cases lining the pavement were filled with shrivelled petals, their colours dulled by the dry autumn winds. A cherry tree stood in the corner, its leaves dust-covered and yellow-edged, clinging stubbornly to life. Cobwebs clung to the third-story windows, visible even from the lawn—a testament to the prolonged stagnation that had seeped into the household.

Inside, his wife sat motionless in her chair, her gaze fixed on the gate. The hollows beneath her eyes grew darker with each passing day, weighed down by endless waiting. She didn’t turn when he entered the kitchen, her silence as heavy as the air around them. She reminded him of Haleema from The Half Mother.

“Still no sign of him?” he asked, breaking the silence.

“No,” she replied without turning, her voice flat and mechanical.

The two of them, both recently retired from their illustrious government careers, now found themselves ensnared in a void of pain and purposelessness. He, once a famous professor of literature, would occasionally write to escape the unbearable truths of life.

Writing, he thought, is the noblest form of escapism, a way to exorcise what his soul couldn’t carry.

But now, with no words left, he had no refuge. The absence of writing 68

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exposed him to his unfiltered suffering, leaving him defenceless.

He envied his neighbour—a jovial-faced man who worked tirelessly at a stone quarry. The man’s laughter echoed through the evenings as he joked and smoked with friends. He carved out a life from the harshness of stone. His existence seemed simple, blissfully ignorant of existential torment.

Unlike Raskolnikov, he thought bitterly, I haven’t committed a crime. Yet my suffering feels heavier than his guilt.

Darkness descended, swallowing the world outside. The plants in the lawn morphed into ghostly silhouettes, their forms dissolving into the encroaching night. She remained at her post, facing the window, her frame stiff with anticipation. He sat in the corner, flipping through Cioran’s From the Heights of Despair with little interest, the weight of its title matching the heaviness in his chest.

A sudden clang at the gate broke the oppressive silence. Moments later, he appeared in the doorway, his hair dishevelled, his eyes glistening in the dim lamplight.

She sprang to her feet, words tumbling out in a cascade of Kashmiri endearments, her voice trembling with relief. But he despised it all now—the affection, the concern. He only wanted his dinner.

They sat in silence. The dastarkhwan was spread out before them, its ritualistic beauty belying the tension in the room. Plates of steaming rice, copper bowls filled with fragrant dishes, and a clay bowl of curd stood untouched for a moment as if waiting for some unspoken ceremony to begin. The clang of crockery against the plates punctuated the stillness, every sound amplified in the quiet.

“Baba,” he muttered finally, his voice rough, “I sold the Royal 69

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Enfield. I had borrowed money from friends.”

He didn’t look up, shovelling rice into his mouth with mechanical urgency.

The words struck like a blow. He felt something twist inside him—a mixture of pain, disappointment, and worry—but he held it back.

His response needed careful calculation. He couldn’t afford to push him away further.

“No issues,” he said after a deliberate pause, his voice calm but strained.“You should have talked to me first. But… it’s done now.

Just…” He hesitated, choosing his next words cautiously. “You look worn out, always in such a hurry. We worry about you. And you shouldn’t keep your mother waiting—she’s on medication, you know.”

His words hung in the air, not an admonishment but a plea wrapped in concern. Yet the silence that followed felt impenetrable, the gulf between them widening despite their proximity.

The clang of the crockery continued a rhythm that seemed to echo their unspoken fears.

“I know I’m troubling you. I won’t come back next time to trouble you. You’ll be free. I have no freedom in this bullshit family.”

That was it. He snapped.

Without a word, he grabbed the clay bowl of curd and hurled it at the wood-panelled wall. It shattered with a deafening crash, the curd splattering in pale streaks across the surface like an abstract painting of despair.

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The room froze for a moment before unravelling into chaos.

The mother let out a resigned sigh, her sobs muffled by her trembling hands. She groaned softly, her words a blur of pleading and anguish. This wasn’t the first time their lives had descended into such a scene, nor would it be the last.

They were trapped in a cycle of hurt and helplessness.

It wasn’t that they hadn’t tried. They had tried to guide him, to understand him, to reason with him. But they lacked the language— or maybe there was no language—to reach him.

He was lost, adrift in his own turmoil, and they could do little but watch him slip further away.

He hadn’t always been this way. He was born five long years after their marriage; a child they had desperately longed for. Without a child, their home had felt barren, monotonous, devoid of meaning.

“We’re nothing without one,” they would argue.

She had coaxed him, time and again, to climb the steep stone steps of the Makhdoom Sahib shrine. He had been reluctant, his breath short and his legs heavy, but she always convinced him. With each step, he imagined Sisyphus and wondered if the mythical figure had truly accepted his fate—or if he climbed out of rebellion, refusing to give up. Together, they would pray, her lips moving fervently as she tied a strip of cloth to the iron mesh outside the shrine, her faith unshakable.

And then, finally, the son was born.

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Happiness, they realized, comes in many forms, but few are as pure as the arrival of a child. His birth was a balm for years of yearning.

They had a reason to smile, to hope. In his solitude, the father often questioned the gift.

“Do I deserve this?” he would whisper to himself, almost afraid the universe would hear and take it away.

He kissed the boy’s chubby cheeks until the child cried in protest, only to be scolded by his wife for his overzealous affection. Even her scolding made him love her more.

For a while, life felt complete. Dostoevsky, Schopenhauer, and even Emil Cioran, whose words had once felt like a dark mirror to his soul, now read differently—hopeful, almost warm. But happiness, he realized bitterly, is fleeting.

Oh, it didn’t last long. What does?

They didn’t understand the delicate principles of love and affection— not the kind that sustains or shields against the invisible cracks that form over time. Their son had been the embodiment of sweetness in the beginning. He never complained, never lagged behind in his studies, and never grumbled about the things his classmates had that he didn’t. He was, in every way, a dream child.

He had a natural affinity for social sciences, spending hours absorbed in his books. He loved sneaking into his father’s reading closet, pulling down volumes with care, and flipping through their pages as though searching for something hidden. He admired his father’s writings, often published in local journals and magazines, and spoke about them with a kind of reverence that made his father’s chest swell with pride. In those days, his father had felt like 72

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the happiest man alive, and his mother had basked in the warmth of their little world.

But good things, they learned, are fragile. They get infected far quicker than you can imagine. Often, you don’t even realize when the rot sets in—when the sweetness starts to sour. They couldn’t pinpoint when or how it happened, but their son began to slip away.

Somewhere, unknowingly, he fell into the wrong hands, into a circle they couldn’t see, much less understand.

It was subtle at first, like the slow encroachment of dusk.

But he sank deeper and deeper into it, until it consumed him entirely.

By the time they noticed, it was too late. He was battling a beast—a demon clinging to his back—and it had dug its claws in deep. They could only watch, powerless, as he struggled against it, his oncebright spirit dimming with each passing day.

The poor parents were utterly ransacked, their spirits hollowed out.

They could no longer bring themselves to talk about the joy their son had once brought into their lives. The house began to decay, both physically and emotionally.

A sour, unshakable stench crept into its corners. Insects thrived, rats tumbled across the floors, and the lawn turned into a wild, unkempt jungle. An eerie silence hung over everything, heavy and oppressive.

Her osteoporosis worsened, gnawing away at her fragile frame, while he noticed his hair thinning faster, as though grief itself was eroding him. Yet, despite her frailty, she would summon the strength to convince him to climb the long, steep stone steps of the Makhdoom Sahib shrine once again. They prayed not for miracles, 73

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but for something smaller, quieter—some sign of hope for their son’s recovery.

Their ascent was slow and laborious, punctuated by frequent pauses to rest after every ten steps. Each break became a space for his mind to wander, haunted by fragments of thought and memory.

He recalled how he could never stand against “the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,” how life truly was “a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more.”

He thought of his son—not as a thankless child, but as someone lost, unable to grasp the anguish of his parents.

He mourned his own missed “tide in the affairs of men” and how he was now “bound in shallows and in miseries.” He reflected bitterly that the darkest night of their lives wasn’t going to end with the sun’s rise; that he and his son could never “carry the fire” like the father and son in The Road.

Their yesterday clung to them like a shadow, unyielding, as they desperately sought a tomorrow that refused to arrive. He couldn’t shake the feeling that redemption was out of reach, that there truly was “no way to be good again.”

And in the end, he realized this: there is no salve for certain wounds, no cure for the torment that twists and rends the soul.

The son only sank deeper into the abyss. No counselling, no rehabilitation could pull him out. He mastered the art of concealment, tucking his vices into hollowed-out books, feeding his altered appetites with things filthy and forbidden. His days 74

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were marked by obsessive, repetitive behaviours, each one more baffling than the last. Household valuables disappeared and sold to hawkers in the street for quick cash. His actions grew erratic, his explanations increasingly bizarre, and his dangerous stunts became commonplace.

The father, wearied by the mundane ritual of buying vegetables from the filthy, crowded market, found solace in a brief pause at the bridge. There, he would gaze at the tall poplars lining the riverbank.

Stripped of their leaves by autumn’s relentless hand, they stood bare and skeletal, save for a few pale, wilted leaves clinging desperately to the branches—much like the few stubborn hairs clinging to his own head.

One evening, over dinner, the son returned with a fresh wound— stitch marks stark on his forehead, evidence of a brawl sparked by a trivial social media post at a street food stall. His parents, hollowed out by despair, pleaded with him.

“Take us with you,” his father begged, his voice trembling with both anger and sorrow. “We’ll do what you do, eat what you eat, drink what you drink. We’ll live however you want. Just—please— we can’t take it anymore.”

But the son said nothing. The silence in the house thickened, expanding like an unseen weight pressing on their chests.

When his behaviour worsened beyond bearing, they admitted him to a rehabilitation centre far from home, beyond the Pir Panjal.

It felt like a final act of surrender, a desperate gamble in a losing game. Three months after his admission, the mother died. She passed away wretched and inconsolable, her sobs dissolving into the indifferent void that had taken over their once-happy home.

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The days blurred into months, each one colder and more barren than the last. Nothing changed. The family almost disappeared. But on a few occasions, some distant relative would be seen accompanying the old man to the Psychiatric Diseases Hospital near the Makhdoom Sahib shrine.

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A Moment At Home Anirudh Prabhu

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Buying Happiness PD Praapti It’s 11 at night when I hear the lock click, And I breathe a sigh of relief as the footsteps approach.

What my parents see is all but a sleeping figure, But how can I tell them about the tears trapped inside?

Tomorrow will be the same, I can picture it now A surprise gift and a card next to my bed.

Ignoring all the unopened boxes, I get a lump in my throat How can I tell them it’s the gift of Time I wanted instead?

Tomorrow, breakfast will be laid, my uniform neatly pressed My favourite lunch packed and ready to go.

I walk to the front door, my heart aching for a hug But how can I think of saying goodbye when I never even said hello?

No air purifier can mask the smell of loneliness.

The bright chandeliers can’t hide the darkness within.

If I had a rupee for every time I felt alone, I would be rich, but it wouldn’t change a thing.

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Now, years later, I step into my parents’ shoes Waiting for my child with arms unfurled.

My poor parents…

Buying me happiness, while all I wanted was for them to be there.

They would have bought the world for me, Yet all along, they were my world.

Two different generations, with different approaches to parenting One focused on buying happiness, the other focused on nurturing All my life, I just wanted someone to love me, to hold my hand Now, as my children sleep, comforted and assured They know someone is always there, to care and understand.

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KAAPI SESSIONS

My Grief Is A Garden Outside My Window Rachana Raman My grief is a garden outside my window. It travels with me wherever I go, a reminder of what has been lost and what I shall never know.

Its roots grow without attention; except for the rain that falls every evening and the dead leaves buried by stomping feet. The garden is on ground but also floating above my head. I am its nourishment, my tears its water, my memory its fertilizer. It once rained for years on end. The people who helped me sow the seeds wonder why I mourn the loss of a few strands of grass, or why the sun doesn’t shine on these patches of land. They wonder why I let the dirt slide into my cracked feet.

“Aren’t you afraid of the worms?”

“Aren’t you afraid of the fallen leaves?”

“Aren’t you afraid of the disease, of the misery it will bring?”

I can only smile. I smile without joy, without acceptance. The dirt will not hurt me. I know that because the dirt is simply a remnant of the garden. When I leave my garden to walk around the world, my feet are covered, and I remember it because of the dirt. It gets cold, refuses to be washed out, makes it hard to walk, and is always there. My dirt, I begin to call it. I think of it with derisive affection.

I think of it like I thought of the rain in my garden. You could soak in the rain, and it would wash away your tears. It would nourish the ground beneath it, but the smell would linger. The grass would grow, but the dirt would become stickier and harder to get rid of.

Gravel, concrete, tar, stones, I have walked those paths with my 81

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with my feet. I have seen other gardens - of sorrow; of joy; some abandoned filled with flowers, and sometimes weed. Yet, I have not seen it all.

I pluck flowers from someone else’s garden and plant them in my own. I have brought many such flowers, each one as vibrant as the next. They bloom the day they are brought, but the soil kills them.

The sunlight doesn’t shine enough; the rain is relentless. The flowers die. The weeds that coiled around my feet grow quickly. They relish the resistance to their growth. They welcome themselves and chain me to the ground. I hear the laments of the grass, and I tell them I am powerless. I did not bring the weeds here by choice, but I never thought to remove them.

“Why must I let the rain pour?”

“Why must the sunlight shy away from us?”

“Why should I dance here and let the dirt stick to my feet? “ So, I fought. I cut the grass and the weeds. I cupped handful of mud in my palms and threw them over the fence. I bought new flowers, planted their seeds, and waited for them to grow. I trusted the rain and the sun, but the garden grew back. The flowers never bloomed, the dirt crawled under my fingernails, so I ran from it all. Ran away, dirt all over, grass blades shooting up as the blood poured from the cracks on my feet. I never looked at the garden again.

When the monsoon comes again and I find my way back to it, I will not enter as I once did. The grass may call my name, the worms may crawl to the surface, asking me to return. To dance once more, let the rain bathe me, and let the sky pour its anger on my shoulders.

I will walk away, and the dirt is all I have left. It will never leave, no matter how much I hide or run. We are companions for as long as these feet are mine.

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My grief is a garden sown in my heart, that stands outside my window. It grows silently, and the weeds are not coiled around my feet. The garden will not bloom with blossoms as spring comes; it will not become dry when the summer sun beats down, for the rain never stops. When the last of my dirt is wiped away, it will become a graveyard and we shall rest together once again, the garden, the grass, the dirt, the rain and I.

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Echoes Of Play, Stilled By Time Soumita Bhattacharyya

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Weathered Rhythms: Heterotopology Of A Playground Vidya Mary George The Nagali Hills Ground in Dona Paula, Goa, is a vast, open space with bristling trees skirting its perimeter. For most evenings of the year, it is a playground for men. Their feet kick up its dry earth along with the ball into the open air. At night, its scattered streetlights, together with the spirited winds, render it a mysterious, almost uncanny, tenor. In the scorching afternoons of the peak of summer, its barrenness becomes even more apparent as packs of street dogs seek shelter under the sparse shade of its resilient trees. Tongues lolling, passed out from the heat. A few weeks before the monsoon descends, the two tiny Gulmohar shrubs on its periphery come to life in a vibrant shock of colour. Come monsoon, the ground transforms into a lush and fecund oasis teeming with life. Walk by it, and the mischievous wind will have your umbrella upturn itself as if in celebration of the glory of change and impermanence. Once the rains have given way to the ‘winter’ months, it becomes the perfect spot to watch the bright red sun slither down the horizon just as the moon climbs up unto the clear skies behind you.

Since the past couple of years, around the beginning of December, the ground has been undergoing another transformation, one that makes it become the Arena for the Serendipity Arts Festival. Day by day, the changes seem comprehensible—a tent here, a fence there—and yet, the day the lights go on, the metamorphosis seems so profound and drastic it can only be explained as an act of magic.

As the Arena, the ground brings together people from near and far through dance, music, theatre, sound, and movement. Once the 85

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Arena is dismantled, the ground goes back to its weathered rhythms of change. As Michel Foucault reminds us, space, too, has a history.

During its year-long becoming and non-being, the ground as a stage reveals and transforms our selfhood (but also that of non-human others) and our relations with it, just as we reveal and transform its character, potential, and affordances.

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The Abandoned Observer Soumita Bhattacharyya

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Writing Story 2024: A Year Of Winters Supriya Rakesh Hello there!

It is that time of the year. And I am back, with my annual dose of reflective rumination about life and my creative process.

I now live in a continent where the year begins and ends with winter. Cold, dark, damp, foreboding and occasionally snowy. Also magical, romantic, with a haunting quality, perspective shaped by the eyes of the beholder, and which side of the canal you gaze from.

This year, it seemed like the spirit of winter was lingering through the year, her grey ominous clouds surfacing on the sunniest of days.

The spring in my step slowed into a heavy trod, and the brightgreen trees on my evening walks turned fall red, too soon.

And yet, there were saving graces, there always are; people, passions and poems. I played and rested, isolated and connected, taught and learnt, held and was held- helping me cope and create in a year of winters.

These were the winter essentials that kept me warm and safe this year.

A cup of hot cacao The choice of spelling is both intentional and ironical. Why settle for store-brand hot chocolate, over-sweetened, when you can choose a drink both raw and mystical, that opens up your heart centre?

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This year, I was nourished by many things- trusted friends, books, writing hours, yoga, an ever-expanding improv community, the beauty of flowers and berries. Sometimes there was a feeling of lack, of hunger, not having or doing enough. At other times, I felt too full, overwhelmed, like I was taking on too much. Moving frequently between fasting and feasting, I learnt to find an equilibrium, to contain my instincts for more and to instead, savour slowly and deliberately, what was already in my plate. To fill my own cup before pouring out carelessly, and to see my energy as rare and precious as organic chocolate-gold.

I found sustenance in poetry, in claiming my poetess-ness, and in giving myself permission to uncover my poems (scribbled for years in notebooks and journals), and share them with the world. I discovered that writing about food allowed me the joy of creating not just from the head, but through the body and senses. I published an instruction manual poem on messiness and imperfection, and how not to peel fruits. In the past, I have explored my delicious relationship with food through a personal essay on dosa and adolescent friendship, and a short story about college reunions and body image.

A cozy blanket Ah! To be held in soft comfort, within cushioned wrap-arounds of gentle care. This was the year I learnt to tune into my body, and to make rest a priority.

My previous life phases were abuzz with busy-ness and productivity, but more recently, I have felt the arrival of a slow-growing fatigue.

A wintery tiredness that appears from the mind, lives in the body, but belongs to the soul. Which demands from me, one thing and one thing only- a long nap on my couch, enveloped in my 89

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favorite blanket. This was the year of (finally) acknowledging this experience, understanding my needs, and giving the parts of me that wanted rest, all my love and compassion. It was a lot tougher than expected! To take breaks and pauses, navigating the ultimate fear of not doing enough. To be at rest when it meant being away from connection and belonging. To unconditionally and unapologetically support myself and find peace in solitude, at home with and within myself.

Rest is front and center in my new short story ‘The Garden of Perpetual Youth’, which borrows from fairytales and myths to explore notions of beauty and ageing. My approach to teaching and guiding became more gentle and heartful, matching the softer energies I was allowing myself to sink into. The slow patience I was cultivating helped me make progress on my mystery novel. Yes, it is coming together gradually, and yes, it is a cozy!

Boardgames and campfire stories When the weather outside is freezing, uninviting, you are driven to make the most of everything the indoors can offer you. And you discover, within these four-walled constraints, unlimited possibilities of joy and play. Board games and charades, colours and crafts, jokes and conversations, made-up songs and ghost stories.

Through exciting new collaborations and platforms, I was able to create and offer workshops with drawing, storytelling, and Lego blocks. I experimented with longer formats and complex narrative structures in improvised theatre, and also with telling improvised stories on stage for the first time. My fictional contemporary retelling of Cinderella based in the world of star-struck Mumbai, was published in a South-Asian anthology on gendered violence.

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Drawing upon all of these experiences, navigating through creative barriers and resources, I am now excited to create warm, nourishing spaces of exploration for others to connect with their ‘inner artists’.

I hope to invite more spontaneity and emergence into these spaces (including my course at TISS) and to also bring in my whole self, trusting my capability and ‘worthiness’ to do this kind of work.

Thank you all for laying out my blanket, refilling my cup, and joining my games, whether from near or afar. I am grateful for your presence in my life. I come to the end of 2024 with more gratitude and vulnerability than before, and trust that I can let myself surrender to winter. Even if it lasts too long, I will be able to wake up from hibernation in time, rejuvenated, when summer arrives.

How was your 2024? What seasons did you encounter in your life?

Did they follow the solar calendar or astrological predictions? Or were you a magician who bent time to your will?

Hope you have an amazing, time-turning, all-season-proof 2025!

I wish you many playful moments, the most comforting hugs and lots of culinary experiments!

Much Love, Supriya

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Nostalgic Campfire Nights Anirudh Prabhu

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The Tragic Return Rachana Raman Nostos and algos. The Greeks used them separately, a homecoming independent of pain – a hero returns to glory, not to pain. But there is no return without pain, no journey without sorrow. Home is far beyond the lands where it once used to be, where some argue it still stands; but my home lies not on the ground where my father laid the stone; it lies not in the garden that my mother tends to, nor within the walls that the cat walks. My home lies in between the cracks of the bedroom walls, and the worn-out window grilles. It lies in the faded dress I adorned my doll with, it lies in the old car that we sold to a young family. I would not know that car again, even if I were to sit in it. The doll’s eyes are lopsided, but I reach for her in the night, when the inexplicable darkness threatens to make me forget what I wanted from the next day. Home is where the heart is, but my own heart has shredded itself to seek flight at gas stations and highway forks, at marketplaces and flower shops, at old bakeries and bookshops – each fragment seeks the sun. It tries to find the people I loved - it looks for them in the faces that have remained.

Home is where you rest your bones, and yet, my bones have found their respite during the rainy walks that accompany melancholy, in the scent of stale doughnuts shared in humid evenings over loud laughter. They have found their peace in hidden nooks with tattered books, at twilight by a lake with a library that will be lost to time. I have no home, for I have never made my own. What is it that I long for, then?

Nostos – a hero’s return. A celebration for a victory won against mysterious foes. A commemoration of a life well lived, of time well 93

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lived, of time well spent. And yet, I return in disgrace. The sum of my failures lies under my wrist, making my fingers twitch as they raise a glass in celebration. I toast no one and yet everyone – because the words are never spoken, the silence lays them bare.

I save my worst accusations for the mirror. An endless game of pointing fingers ensues. We both lie down, the effort of meting out blame exhausts us. There are no winners in a game with no rules.

The bed feels different, the mirror dirtier, the door creakier, and the drawers are empty. It feels hollowed out, and what a strange feeling it must be, a shell taking refuge in a shell.

Algos – insurmountable grief. The city lights change in each place, some yellow, some white – some dull, some bright. Some sleep before darkness engulfs the sky, some awaken in the night, as if the prospect of going unseen lends them a freedom unlike any other.

And yet, each city is a monument to grief. Each city feels like home, because what are people, if not filled with grief? For some, grief is a shackle, for some, a tool, for others, strength. There is grief in death, in loss, in suffering – it is not always a means to an end. There is greater grief in living, for grief becomes a companion who is a centimetre away from stepping on your feet. They block the sunlight. They hold your hand with a grip so loose, you cannot decide whether you want them to hold on or let go. And yet, you walk. We walk, as our companions collide endlessly, and we lose them only to find them again, waiting for us at the bus stop.

So it is that I yearn for home. I yearn to be fed, with warm rice and fresh fruits. With calm and freedom. The burden never leaves, it can only be ignored. I yearn for what once was, yet, I cannot piece together the fragments of what I broke. The cracks can only be filled with my hope, the gold that holds the pieces together. But the heart that broke apart to fly and live a million times can not be brought to one place; these pieces, parts of me, will dance and sing, cry and 94

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and shout, they will endlessly hunt for home. How can something that has never been true to itself find a home? Where is home, if not the place where the slivers of my heart come together to give me what some poets call a peaceful soul? Each reunion is incomplete, as I scatter bits of myself over every road I walk. The fragments call for each other, with no reply. And yet, a hankering for what may have never existed, for a place none of them have known. Grief is a lonely and wayward guide, leading the exhausted hero back to a home they may never recognise again. In the depths of the soil are buried the remains of lives they left behind, an unmarked grave left to be forgotten. But the celebration will continue, and the city remains a mausoleum.

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The Contributors Soumita Bhatacharrya

Refer to The Teatotallers section.

Neeta Doshi Neeta Doshi has been working in the IT industry for 10 years.

She has published a poetry book titled FindingMyVoice. Apart from being a freelance creative writer, she is also a voice over artist and an amateur theatre artist.

Kalyani Nandagopal Madhumita Roy Saujanya Satyanarayan Refer to The Teatotallers section.

Manasi Chattopadhyay Refer to The Teatotallers section.

Joyeeta Das Joyeeta (She/ her) is an MA Top Scholar & Domoto Webb Fellow at the University of Washington, Seattle. She pursues creative writing to get a whiff of rhetorics between academic pursuits. Some of her works have been published in Tumulayan, Joyee and Chaicopy. Joyeeta can be connected at joyeetas14@gmail.com.

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Amelie Dutta Refer to The Teatotallers section.

Raaghav Chapa

Refer to The Teatotallers section.

Ekasmayi

Ekasmayi is a doctoral scholar in India, working in the social sciences. An inveterate lover of poetry, she published her first book of poems, Dead Letter Mail, in 2021. Her works of poetry have been published in the following publications – The Riptide magazine, the Chaicopy journal, the Alipore Post, The Madras Courier, and the XtraJumbo zine. She continues to write for online journals and publications, during her time away from professional work.

Ankita Gupta

Mrs. Ankita Gupta is a lawyer based in India, holding a BBA.LLB degree with experience in litigation at the High Courts and Supreme Court of India. Writing poetry has always been a central part of her life, and her work often explores the interplay between the analytical rigor of law and the emotional depth of human experiences.

Swayama Sengupta

Swayama Sengupta is a doctoral scholar from Amity Institute of English Studies and Research, Amity University Kolkata. A double gold medalist from Adamas University, she is intrigued with things dealing with heritage and takes immense pride in returning to roots.

Currently she is learning Japanese.

Preethy G.R

Preethy G.R is a native of Kerala. She makes sense of the world 97

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through Malayalam, Hindi and English.

Tanay

Tejaswi Kalra, an IIT Kharagpur postgrad, has been writing since his college days. He goes by the pen name Tanay and has featured in numerous anthologies and solo projects. Between freelancing and lending a hand in the family business, poetry is essentially his escape from the routine.

Agnideepto Dutta Agnideepto Datta is an Assistant Professor of English, and has experience of teaching English literature both in India and abroad. Beyond academia, he is a passionate musician and has been a bassist for several bands and projects. Amid the demands of academic life, he finds solace in the mountains, where he captures the whispers of his soul, translating moments of quiet reflection into poetic expressions.

Pradeep Hariharan

Pradeep Hariharan is an aspiring writer, software product manager, and amateur singer based in Bangalore, India. His stories often explore themes of empathy, resilience, and identity, inspired by his journey as a parent of a 12-year-old autistic son. Through his work, he seeks to give voice to caregivers navigating extraordinary challenges.

Preranalakshmi Desharapu

Refer to The Teatotallers section.

Ghulam Mohammad Khan

Ghulam Mohammad Khan was born and raised in Sonawari 98

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(Bandipora); an outlying town located on the wide shores of the beautiful Wullar Lake. Ghulam Mohammad believes that literature is the most original and enduring repository of human memory. He loves the inherent intricacies of language and the endless possibilities of meaning. In his writing, he mainly focuses on mini-narratives, local practices and small-scale events that could otherwise be lost forever to the oblivion of untold histories. Ghulam Mohammad considers his hometown, faith, and family to be the most important things to him. He writes for a few local magazines and newspapers.

His short story collection titled The Cankered Rose is his first major forthcoming work.

Anirudh Prabhu Refer to The Teatotallers section.

P.D. Praapti Praapti is an eleventh standard student residing in Chennai. Creative writing is her strength, and she is fond of experimenting with her poems. Getting her work reviewed by right people has gained her immense recognition at school and has made her confident.

Rachana Raman

When words can fully describe a person, they are lost in the dance of interpretation. There is, in me, the urge to reduce myself to a sentence, and to be an opus beyond reproach. When I began to realise neither one was possible, I took to writing.

Vidya Mary George Vidya Mary George is a PhD Candidate in Philosophy at Goa University. Her research in hermeneutics of space focuses on the spatial aspects of living a good life theorised by Michel Foucault 99

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and Paul Ricoeur. She was a UGC Research Fellow (2019–2024) and a Writing Urban India Fellow (2023).

Supriya Rakesh Supriya Rakesh is an author, poet, researcher and creative facilitator from Mumbai, India. Her writing is published in Litro, Setu Bilingual, Kitaab, and a South-Asian anthology on gendered violence. She recently won the Bound Food essay contest for her memoir piece on adolescent friendship. In her courses and workshops, Supriya draws upon story, theatre and art to cultivate loving spaces for self-exploration and dialogue. Discover her published writing and research on her website www.supriyarakesh.com. She currently lives in Amsterdam and is trying her hand at improvised theatre.

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The Teatotallers Editors-in-Chief Anosha Rishi Anosha is a third-year BA student. She loves little trinkets, doodling on the sides of her notebook and watching Wong Kar-Wai movies at night with some iced coffee. She also treasures her Pinterest board containing obscure cat memes.

Abirami Srinivasan

Abirami is a 2nd year masters student who is in a quest to explore and learn with an open mind on what life has to offer. She’s a core foodie who’s deeply interested in learning different cultures, art forms, tricks and tips of life, listens to a wide range of music and is always open to new genres.

Fiction Anirudh Prabhu (Head)

Anirudh is a 3rd year BA student who loves origami, photography, and all things food. His passions lie in getting out into the world and exploring things through the lens of poetic romanticism. He also likes Frank Sinatra.

Saujanya Satyanarayan

Saujanaya is in third year BAand loves writing poetry, Bharatanatyam, and hopping cafes the most. You can find her curled up in a corner watching Christmas movies, listening to Prateek Kuhad or reading a rom-com book. Filter coffee is the only way to her heart.

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Manya Kapoor

Manya is a 2nd year BA student and loves to write short stories inspired by songs, photography and reading. You can normally find her curled up with a cup of tea or coffee and a good book with music drawing out the world around her.

Dhaarini R

Dhaarini is a second-year BA student at MCH. She mostly spends her time reading poetry, listening to music, and scrolling through tumblr. She is interested in all forms of art and loves finding parallel themes in everything. She is also obsessed with cat videos.

Sritanu Nalla

Sritanu is a second-year student at MCH with a love for fiction and creative writing. She enjoys storytelling in various forms, from literature to theater. When she’s not writing, she loves watching films and exploring different cinematic styles.

Sharon Edel Britto

Sharon is addicted to manga, manhwa, manhua, and anything visual. Loves music but tends to overanalyze and go on extensive rants about anything and everything sound (for your sanity, do not mention Ludovico Einaudi around her).

Ananya Raj

Ananya Raj is a student at MCH with a deep love for reading, music, and art. She is also chronically online and thrives on pop culture discourse. Passionate about exploring ideas, she enjoys dissecting media and the world around her with a sharp, thoughtful lens.

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Namita Ahuja

Non-Fiction Charvi Bhatnagar (Head)

Charvi is a Masters student at MCH who herself is a master of none. Dabbling in different hobbies, be it art, poetry or academia, she’s headstrong about her tastes and finds comfort in instigating an expression. She is also seen cracking lousy old one-liners that never land and never can be amounted to be hilarious. To befriend her, just slip in some words about cats or naps and she’d instantly adore you.

Tanvi Khater

I’m Tanvi, a final-year MA student with a confessed fascination for the darker side of life – the weirder, the wackier, the more unsettling, the better!

When I’m not nose-deep in a book that’s got me hooked, you can find me plotting my next great escape. I’m a self-proclaimed globetrotter, always on the lookout for the next adventure, the next culture to immerse myself in, and the next wonderful experience to add to my collection!

Trying to tie me down to one place for too long might just drive me stir-crazy!

Raghavi Rao Raghavi Rao is an MA English Lit student - she loves musical theatre, improv comedy and reading books overnight. Can often be found enjoying cold coffee while listening to music.

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Anjanaa Vishwanathan

Anjanaa is a second year student in MCH. She is a bookworm at heart and has a passion for music, dance and art. Gallery hopping is by far her favourite thing to do.

Annu Clair Joseph Nidhi Vaishnavi Manoj

Visual Art and Graphic Design Amelie Dutta (Head)

Amelie is a MA student at MCH who enjoys photography, sculpting, and painting open scapes. She is a certified scuba diver and an avid traveller who loves birding. She is obsessed with Hindi retro music and is often found humming one.

Manasi Chattopadhyay

Manasi is a Masters student at MCH. Rains, warm coffee, books, handwritten stuff, poetry, painting, dogs and music is where her heart lies. A photographer by hobby, she captures what soothes her eyes and a foodie as all Bongs are, she also loves travelling.

Soumita Bhattacharyya

I’m Soumita, a third-year BA student at MCH with a deep interest in both science and philosophy. I love exploring the intersection of these fields, eager to seek meaning through a world of multiple perspectives. I’m also keen to take photographs and videos 104

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everywhere I go.

Raaghav Chapa

Raaghav Chapa is an entrepreneur, student, and storyteller with a passion for film, sports, and photography. When he’s not running Trifect Media or creating content, he’s probably playing cricket, behind a camera, or debating the finer points of cinema.

Preranalakshmi Desharapu Pehel Kenia Ishita Pal

PR and Social Media Thrishaana (Head)

Thrishaana is a third year BA student who you will always find planning her next trip. She loves her dog Toby (who she insists is not fat), watching the sunsets in her balcony and going for walks, but above all, she loves capturing these little moments.

Vidmahi

Vidmahi is a masters student who has a long list about what she loves. Dance, theatre, books, coffee, tea, quality time with friends/ family, evenings spent watching sunsets, MCH, Chaicopy, the list goes on. She’s glad that both MCH and Chaicopy are on the list.

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Sanjana Menon Shibani Jennifer Joseph Priyadarshani Gogoi Bobby Tom Mathew Aparna KV

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