Despite an uneven recipe, Abhishek Chaubey’s Killer Soup has enough strong performances and intrigue to make for a palatable—and entertaining—main course. By Karan Madhok

A personal story of music and brotherhood: “Kau had also bought me the album before he left the country. Even though he would come back soon, it would turn out that us living apart in different cities would be a feature—and not a bug.” By Deepak Sridhar

Poetry by Anandi Kar: ‘Sometimes, a name / Slips through / the sieve of the heart / and it quivers inside / like hair covering the red face / of a tiny child’

Poetry by Antara Mukherjee: ‘I dig / Into my memoir platter / where shrouded instructions / wrestle with unhealed wounds.’

Poetry by Chintan Girish Modi: ‘For every night of stolen sleep / every moment of crushing despair / every taste of I can’t do this anymore’

The menace of vanishing snows now haunts the Himalayan region, taking away the very essence of the mountains for Indians and people from around the world. By Vipin Labroo

Poetry by Urmi Chakravorty: ‘Hope glistened on the peaks afar / while the russet dunes of chinar leaves / formed a gentle duvet for our fiery yen.’

Poetry by Nikhat Jonak: ‘How petrified she is to see him bawling with bolted eyes. / A lullaby materializes in air; she thinks she missed the miracle.’

Using alcohol as a vessel, Saurabh Shulka’s comic drama Dry Day focuses on the relationship between capital and elections, the role of women in decision-making realm, and the overlap between the personal and political spheres of life. By Marnina (Avirup)

Poet, writer, and essayist Sumana Roy speaks to Ronald Tuhin D’Rozario about the creative process, shifting between poetry and prose, and the ‘joyous riyaz’ of a literary life.

Poetry by Karan Madhok: ‘couldn’t i unsign the social contract, / a sunbathing vampire, a genie unshackled, / a pair of eyes that awake to starry nights painted / on the bedroom ceiling?’

Poetry by Pragya Dhiman: ‘Now, I find apple water in the showers when I / breathe through my mouth, its taste nostalgic, / my mind prepares a child’s orchard’