Fiction by A.G. Malavika: ‘Jinu took a deep breath and mentally steeled herself for the task ahead. They were diving into a murky world of grief, deceit, and hidden truths. And she knew that only their unyielding determination and intuition would guide them through this labyrinth.’

Essay by Tansy Troy: ‘As arresting now as when first sculpted, Navjot’s contemplation of the feminine form is no less contemporary, no less urgent to consider than when she created the red-and-blue lady thirty years ago.’

Fiction by Sakkho Goon: ‘Five years passed since that day. She wiped her tears when she saw him wear his father’s shoes. She was quiet as he boarded the cab to go to the airport. She read his letters but never sent a reply.’

Extract from the work of Mir Taqi Mir: Mir’s poetry abounds in bawdiness, the pain and enjoyment of life, instances of homosexuality, Sufi themes, close and wise observation of the world, and insistence on man’s dignity. Translated by: Shamsur Rahman Faruqi

Fiction by Aditi Chandrasekar: ‘She rubs the soap over her arms, her legs, her chest, then squeezes a dollop of shampoo and conditioner onto her palms before rubbing and lathering it on her hair. She wonders if this is what makes Shruti’s hair so luscious. Then, she thinks about Gagan, and wonders how many times they’ve showered together in this bathroom.’

Poetry by Tabish Nawaz: ‘I breath to fluidize the gravels / but they fall back / like the debris in a city / bombed for months.’

Poetry by Sambhu R.: ‘Our reflections walk out of mirrors, / ashamed to take on / the semblance of our sinister shapes’

Flash Fiction by Rachel Buttigieg: ‘Memories don’t simply fade after grass burns away; shadows remain like the beautiful hibiscus from childhood memories shared in the gardens of destiny, where our mothers were to be friends.’

Poetry by Ankush Banerjee: ‘Before anaesthesia shatters / the bough of your body, before the / moon overhead is a mouth of darkness, you / pray they fill the space between dislocated hip / & future with what you heard but / could never hold’

Poetry by Mrittika Chatterjee: ‘Windows cradle the world’s weight— / concerns, french braided, / but strands, a newly freed tribe. / Steering wheel clutched, / as if holding an inner child’

Poetry by Carol D’Souza: ‘An armour is only the skin / that has learned / that there is no such thing /
as face value / The prudent trick / of seeming like a free-flowing ditty / from within’

Poetry by Sunil Sharma: ‘a sign / from the heavens, a sighting / rare, a visitor infrequent, in the / urban jungle.’

Poetry by Kashiana Singh: ‘Flushed body of a zombie, burnt silk of raging worms / beholder of lost labyrinths, embroiderer of membranes’

Fiction by Chitra Gopalakrishnan: ‘Ganika is, of course, what I chose to call myself. Others in the town called me a woman of the court. Or a woman of the night.’

Fiction by Jigar Brahmbhatt: ‘Their office was fixed in time, no different from any other office: the neat partitions, cold furniture, and glass, glass, everywhere. Like a simple rule to add two numbers, the office was never going to change. Only the folks playing table tennis seemed ephemeral, like shapes made of fumes.’

Poetry: ‘I want to weave lavender flowers into my hair / love my mother, whose anger / is a withering flower / decomposing to memory / in ash burn lavender.’

Poetry: ‘I placed my parents on a bench / And refused to let the sunset / Dawn upon their lives.’

Poetry by Kiriti Sengupta: ‘Death pauses verdict; the authority mars evidence. / The doomed is put on the pyre; rallies slit through / the silence.’

The collection Awaaz: Voices of Govandi has emerged from the need of the people of Govandi to reclaim the narrative about their neighbourhood, and carve out their own future. Here is an excerpt from the collection. Edited by Nisha Nair-Gupta

Poetry by Vrinda Bansal: ‘I am rage and blasphemy, God in a dungeon, / a domesticated wolf, the brain of a terrorist party / I am your grandmother’s birthday party and a child’s funeral, / a barrel of kerosene’

Poetry by Smita Agarwal: ‘The dahlias grow hawa mey— / off the air, we’d say / Down steep ravines / into which the monsoon // munificence would flow’

Fiction by Neera Kashyap: ‘The next week he, Paltu, joined the moulis. To gather honey, to pay off debts, to induce his mother to eat two meals again, to oil her hair, to soap her body, to close the door to their hut. For his father had gone, and would never return.’

Poetry by Gopi Kottoor: ‘And then, the sip / From the spoon / That’ll soon become memory, / That slowly drawn inward kiss’

Poems by Sayan Aich Bhowmik: ‘I have been told the entire cosmos of our being / Hair, skin, Tissues / Renew themselves. / The old ones dissolving in air, without pain / Much like ice melting on the kitchen shelf.’

Fiction by Anannya Nath: ‘Prosenjit forgets to react. What would he do now? How should he talk her through this? Is this what happens once you forget about being a father?’

Poems by Shreya Sharma: ‘‘i will make for you one and a hundred popsicles in each flavour you can think of. pink bubblegum big collective miracle evening and so on.’

Poems by Shome Dasgupta: ‘take me back / to the moss and crawfish, please / Krishna—take me back to moonlit / moss and claws red like tandoori / curry, soft and savory.’

Poem by Nisha Prakash: ‘Paeans don’t hold stories of / Monkeys with ripped entrails, / Only of the one on the banner / Of the wielder of the Gandiva.’

Personal Essay by Diyaa Jyothilal: ‘For the first time in my life, I would feel beautiful. I felt like a girl. I felt like I was worthy of becoming a woman one day. I spent hours staring into my bathroom mirror, gaping at my reflection, and imagining myself on the cover of Vogue.’

Poetry by Carol D’Souza: ‘it pools around my ankles most days / But now, onwards! To the elixir of evening tea’