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.’