Personal Essay by Ajay Patri: ‘Sometimes I like to imagine a parallel universe in which my brother stayed. In this universe, I continued playing cricket after school, continued following the sport with the fervour of most of my compatriots.’

Fiction by Neera Kashyap: ‘“My friends say this is dirty blood,” she said. “That’s why nobody talks about it, not even our mothers. Not even when there is pain. My mother says not to eat this and that, says I have to be careful now, dress modestly, not talk to boys.”’

Fiction by Kanya Kanchana: ‘Have you ever considered what it takes to make a goddess appear from wood and stone? My uli does not make a single false stroke.’

Poetry by Anushri Nanavati: ‘September is penned in the black ink of loss: / the carcasses of a thousand spiders / strung together, legs locked, tumbling / in tandem’

Fiction by Urmi Chakravorty: ‘She lived in a community where a woman could cement her position only after she bore children. Without a biological offspring, her worth was limited: she was like another supermarket product, destined to be discarded after a brief shelf life.’

Poetry by Sunil Sharma: ‘The moment // compresses the competing / time-zones and geographies; // unites the widely-apart views / into / a single landscape of converged / colours.’

Fiction by Samruddhi Ghodgaonkar: ‘When my foot slipped, I felt a familiar sense of suspension, the weightlessness of a social pariah, a suspension that now waited with a terrible consequence.’

Poem by Tejaswinee Roychowdhury: ‘My roots changed course / the day I started stuffing words / back in dictionaries’

Poem by Ankit Raj Ojha: ‘North Indian colleagues treat me as equal, / yet the demeaning bhaiye surfaces often / when they speak of Biharis not me.’

Fiction by Aarushi Agrawal: ‘She couldn’t believe this was happening to her—these conspiracies, these trending hashtags, all playing out in real life. There was no need to engage. By now, Vaani and Aaqib were walking as briskly as the woods would allow.’

Fiction by Divy Tripathi: ‘Suddenly, a new hunger arose inside. A desire for instant retribution enveloped him, a sudden need to right this particular slight. “I am not your servant,” he said. “Talk with respect.”’

Personal Essay by Babli Yadav: ‘Ten minutes into our ride, we land upon this road patch with grave signs of purple. Hundreds of fallen fruits of an old jamun tree, squished, squashed, and beaten by the dance of the July winds.’