By Rabindranath Tagore
This morning, the sun is beaming from time to time, a wind is blowing swiftly, tamarisk and lychee trees are sashaying and rustling in a sway, a variety of birds are calling out in as many different ways to enliven the forest’s morning assembly. Sitting in this large, companion-less bright and open second-floor room, I am delighted to see a row of boats on the canal and, across it, a village flanked by trees on both sides.
By Achyut Dutt
I read on and on, my voice practiced and well-modulated. And as my words settled into a steady drone, I realized that her movements had gradually ceased and her little curly head was now resting on my arm, completely still.
By Abu Saleh
The book points out that from the very beginning of the investigation process, the Gujarat Government didn’t follow the standard forensic procedures that are the basic requirements in any criminal case. Mr. Nag corroborates this when he says that the burnt train was kept open and accessible to the public for many days and the forensic experts investigated it only after two months. Also, improper and inadequate record-keeping show a systematic effort to divert the investigation process.
By Lopa Banerjee
All these years I have worked to make Omaha my home with its long, tiring winter days of endless snowfall and mist, its sunlit days of solitude, its dark clouded summer evenings breaking out into violent storms and tornadoes. It is nowhere near the grandeur of experience of friends, who have been lured by the luxury and ambiance of big American cities and the dreams fostered there.
By Lopa Banerjee
The summer I turned ten, I knew my mother, too, craved to sing these songs and wanted to teach me, so I could sing in the choir. Her voice ached to traverse the vast terrain of sounds between the high and low notes of the harmonium. I could not see then the atoms of the dozens of glittering particles inside her neck that toiled to spell the musical notes.
By Prachi Priyanka
I felt a whirlpool of emotions. Thoughts wandered like shadowy strangers. My eyes were moist with tears as I slowly perched on the bed and sat beside my child. Ah! My heart ached to reach out to my baby. I bent down to kiss him.
By Bhaswati Ghosh
No matter where I live or how big my house is, home will always be this three-room single-story unit. It’s where
Grandfather did his battery of morning exercises in the front yard; it’s where Grandma unburdened herself through writing. On hot summer days just like these, she lay on her stomach on the bare floor—her work desk—with sheets of foolscap strewn before her.
By Mosarrap H. Khan
Aman Sethi’s A Free Man:A True Story of Life and Death in Delhi, focused on the life of Mohammed Ashraf, is by no means a sociological work. It is a journalistic work that explores the life of one of those thousands of nameless workers who, while contributing significantly to India’s growth story, are often rendered faceless and seen as having no individual subjectivity.
By Shaik Zakeer Hussain
Basharat Peer’s Curfewed Night (2010) is an intensely passionate memoir about the struggle for freedom and justice inpeer what one former U.S president described as the ‘world’s most dangerous place.’ The story of Kashmir is set against the backdrop of Peer’s life and his life is interwoven with the melancholy of his homeland and its inhabitants.
Cafe Dissensus Everyday 