By Lopa Banerjee
Her expectations to relish the pleasures of a new book, a new writing, new exciting news or other sources of amusement diminished; there was nobody she would have to sew for, to write for, nobody for whom she could buy any precious gift.
By Safia Begum
One fine day, I went away with him and started living with him. We never married but lived together. I suspected that I might have been pregnant.
By Madura Katta
I am a girl. Seventeen years old. Poet.
Brown-colored skin. Plays soccer. Junior at school.
Enjoys reading.
Plays soccer, collects coins, has glasses
Has life. Wait, has life?
By Lopa Banerjee
Bhupati sat beside Charu on the ground and touched her softly, without saying a word. He did not know how to give her solace. He did not understand that when she attempted to smother her pain, she did not like the presence of a spectator in the ordeal.
By Kouser Fathima
Laila, from the legend of Laila-Majnu, written by Amir Khusrau, was one of the few who was described as brown-skinned but with time even her description changed: beautiful became synonymous with fairness. However, the word, ‘Layla’, in Arabic means night or dark and hence she was named so after her dusky/dark complexion.
By Lopa Banerjee
While she looked into Amal’s face, Charu had noticed his thin, frail form today. The youthful charm and vigor of his appearance had withered away, and she felt an unexplained sting in her heart to see that. She had no doubt that he was plagued by his forthcoming farewell, but then, why did he behave so strangely with her?
By Lopa Banerjee
Bhupati did not have anything to give Charu that day, nor did he have words for her. He had come to her with empty hands, seeking her love. Just one question of concern from Charu or a bit of her attention would have worked as a remedy to his bruises and pain. But the treasure-chest of Charu’s love and affection remained locked that day.
By Lopa Banerjee
At his summoning, Charu suddenly regained her consciousness and stood up. She didn’t really expect Bhupati’s arrival now. He came close to her, and as he softly stroked her hair with his fingers, he asked her, with all his affection: “Why are you sitting alone in the dark, Charu? Where did Manda go?”
By Lopa Banerjee
The little, humble sanctuary of literature, that Charu had built as their own clandestine world, had been shattered by a hailstorm of praises. Charu felt as if an enormous hail had attacked and destroyed that world entirely, and it pained her immensely.
By Lopa Banerjee
What was that fateful moment when she stimulated his desire to write? Could she exert her influence on Amal now, the way she could do earlier? Amal was now being fed by the pampering indulgence of many; he would be unaffected if he omitted her from his life.
By Lopa Banerjee
Amal has earned considerable repute among his circle of readers recently. His stance, of late, has transformed from that of a humble school student to that of a respectable and elite gentleman. He reads essays in literary associations and meetings, and is often sought by editors or their spokespersons who invite him, request him to join their associations as a member or even as their president.
By Lopa Banerjee
An inexplicable anger began to brew within Amal. He held Charu responsible for demeaning his cherished writings by presenting them to a man as apathetic to literature as his brother, Bhupati. It dawned on Charu instantly and the realization pained her.
Cafe Dissensus Everyday 