Poetry by Goirick Brahmachari: ‘Your absence floats in / Within my house of shadows, / And stale miseries, / Broken windows; breezing in / Lost islands of fog and snow.’

Flash fiction by Shaurya Pathania: ‘It was grumpy until it greeted me, he could talk; a crab in my house, a crab in my house that could talk; and that too in standard English. I wasn’t dreaming. He claimed that he had lived there for longer than he could remember.’

Poetry by Ajanta Paul: ‘If Bangla is the resonance / of raindrops on the soul / English is the petrichor / of poetry that emanates from / the rain-moistened earth / of my being.’

‘Your book felt like the scent of passing months, layered with flowers, rain, spring and autumn—a scent that reached into the city’s deep burrows.’ By Sufia Khatoon

Fiction by Mandira Mitra Chakraborty: ‘I try not to behave like my mother and accept a session of pedicure without making it about civilization and its discontents. I am in no hurry to die, but I shall go quietly when He comes.’

Photo Essay by Abin Chakraborty: ‘Kolkata is a kaleidoscope: turn your gaze and a new pattern will emerge. What you wish to see is therefore a combination of what you want to see and what your gaze is capable of perceiving.’

Fiction by Ayaan Halder: ‘We tell each other that she must’ve found her peace. But her memory trickles down to my fist, and it feels heavier. As if it were carrying the slow-congealed weight of all the blood that you and I have drawn from each other.’

‘I board a bus to Biswabangla, wearing a grey shade, mask, olive hibiscus t-shirt, lemon green hair band, loose crimson brown hair, mild sweat, and the will of forgetting.’ By Sufia Khatoon

Poetry by K.S. Subramanian: ‘In a year its ambience malodorous / Inch of space making way to concrete. / Green unseated by thick red brick’

Fiction by Tansy Troy: ‘It is his image which comes to me now, teaching me mastery over illusion, instructing me how to transform my present suffering into future fortune. When we met him in the flesh, he blessed me with the name Tashi Tsomo. Auspicious feminine ocean.’

‘I had only met Jumma briefly the year before, while Helene knew neither of them before that night. Yet, for us, this kind couple was willing to undergo the supreme sacrifice and give us the most precious thing in their lives: their beloved son.’ By Stephen P. Huyler

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.’