Reflections: Ghoom Station
By Abhinay Dey
The place is called Ghoom, right? They wouldn’t have given the name unless it had something to do with sleep, my little self reasoned hopefully as I promised myself to build a house there when I grow up.
Poem: Homeland Memories
By Tikuli
years ago I bid adieu to my homeland
the colours of autumn that stained my heart
have long faded and the rivers that ran
deep in the lines of my hands have dried
Two Memories
By Tikuli
I breathe deeply, eyes closed,
inhale the aromas that we once shared,
the crackling warmth of wood stove,
the tang of our salt-laced bodies.
Four Poems
By Goirick Brahmachari
The smoky roof has given up. It leaks memory drop by drop
On to my sink. The staircase is
Breaking, falling apart. Insects
Have taken over the corridor.
On losing my cellphone
By Ananya Dutta Gupta
My phone and I had bequeathed and shared meaning between us in similar ways. I had committed memories, thoughts, and images to it in such a way as to create a personal archive.
Two Poems
By Meghna Roy
I smile and say that
Home is no more a noun, but
an adjective that qualifies this
long sentence from Kashmir.
Three Poems on Kashmir
By Muhammad Nadeem
A roaring fire
Or hum of a love song
Sung on the banks of sloshing Lidder River
Knock-kneed beneath crimson Chinars
When horizon is bleeding red
And bullets fired across Jehlum
Injuring Zabarwan’s aghast voices
Two Travel Poems
By Tikuli
I open my eyes, light a cigarette,
somewhere time died in misty solitude
and the river between us froze.
Four Poems
By Parasuraman
And the waves I see leaping and frothing noisily in front of me
Giving the noises of the mela a run for their moneys
Could actually be carrying a bit of Amma
(Not that there is much to carry, for salt water to drink)
Two Poems
By Kalpana Sinha
The food is Indian, South Indian;
The clientele Malaysian;
This is Devi’s Corner, Bangsar, Kuala Lumpur,
A part of my Malaysia.
Two Poems
By Namitha Varma My Grandfather is a King My grandfather is a King. In the dusk of aristocracy, he is a tottering monarch, a dimming light…
Remembering in English
By Rashida Murphy
Somewhere in the inherited cacophony of our multilingual selves, there is room for voicing something that can only be rendered in a foreign language.
Cafe Dissensus Everyday 