Short story by Mehreen Ahmed: ‘As soon as she stepped out of the cubicle, the ‘ghost’ disappeared. Perhaps, it was an optical illusion. Like a rainbow where people saw only the colours, not the water particles behind the veil.’

In a special anthology curated by Ronald Tuhin D’Rozario, nineteen luminary Indian poets respond to the winter through verse. ‘In this odour of detachment, December somehow develops a quiet stir of emptiness inside. It gently teaches the importance of slowness, just like dropping a semicolon between sentences.’

Poetry by Debarati Sen: ‘The world is but a granule of sand / seeping fast through my fingers.’

Poetry by Kavita Parwani Talib: ‘Is this a sign that I’m not completely biodegradable? / Because I leave a hesitant carbon footprint / In my distributed plasticity?’

Photo Gallery: A year after another Kumbh Mela, Karan Madhok visits Haridwar to explore a city deeply immersed in the juxtaposition of religion and commerce.

Poetry by John Copley Alter: ‘a blue heron meditates on water / Between his still rapture and this place you / and I are more than tourists’

Short story by Ramya Srinivasan: ‘AX09 reminded Otto of all things that he hated about the job. All that craving for power had ultimately led to complete powerlessness. The lack of free will. The helplessness of being a puppet in someone else’s hands.’

Personal Essay by Karna: ‘I was adept in two subjects demanding two utterly distinct kinds of engagement: one gave me insights into culture, society, language, and human beings; the other perhaps anticipated that I would prefer the mind to the body.’

A personal essay by Mukta Malini: ‘Now, at twenty-one, I draw bodies: bodies that its owner probably hates, but a lover would describe it as squishy, bodies like soggy noodles and bodies like Manda peetha, bodies like sushi.’

Poetry by Aashika Suresh: ‘you arrive at my front door / in dirty jeans and a kurta, clutching / a shovel and a pitchfork.’

Personal Essay by Bharti Bansal: ‘I think I indeed am born in the family of angry, rebellious people who love as strongly as they can. Our loved ones carve paths for each other, or else, how can we ever find where the trail starts and ends?’

Short story by Nandan: ‘“There is no point in all that,” Shankaran lazily shrugged his shoulders, “Anyway, what’s there in a waterfall?’