By Kamayani Kumar
Ammi had been violated; her pristine chaste body had been trespassed upon by men while my father watched in horror. He had been incapable of resisting the mob, largely constituting of my Sikh ‘uncles’ from the neighbourhood.
By Srirupa Dhar
Just a moment’s flicker and then I see a pale yellow creature resting on to a Lego piece. The creature seemed to be unsure of its sudden landing. It was trying to hide the tip of its dark brown legs.
By Srirupa Dhar
Glasses clinked with the malty smell of Scotch whiskeys and oaky bouquet of Chardonnays. The bitter tartness of alcohol intimately medleyed with the floral fragrances of Gucci and Chanel. The middle-aged self-complacent men savored the drinks as they cracked bawdy jokes.
By Apoorva Saini
Although in this big universe small things like these have stopped mattering to people, I fear if you do not hurry, Sudhama Kumar will be dead by the time you finish reading this letter. I just thought, by writing to you I might reach somebody who is ‘kind of nice’ and might want to help a dying man.
By Sameer Khan
Farhan had never been a practicing Muslim. He visited a masjid only to offer namaz for Eid or an occasional Friday namaz. But now he joined Suleiman often at the local masjid for prayers.
By Chanis Fernando Boisard
Book Excerpt: From Chanis Fernando Boisard’s ‘The Ayah and Other Stories’.
By Anirudh Kala
This was fun, she thought. Who could have guessed? Philosophy as turn on. She was a girl who liked to experiment. And she warmed up.
By Srirupa Dhar
Her skin is a canvas against which her stark life is painted. Blackness sculpts every bit of her life. It weaves into the fatigue of a copper sun, copper moon, copper water, copper everything. Sharon’s life is entrenched in black, a color that absorbs every other color but itself suffers the threat of otherness.
By Srirupa Dhar
Suhashini died a year after Abir’s trip to Kolkata. She went peacefully in her sleep one night. Her hands were tightly holding on to the bottom part of her pillow. She clutched as many LEGO figures as she could. Just like those old houses of Bagbazzar that never forgot to protect the people living in them.
By Irfan Mir
Death was on his young mind; it had gone into his brains, seeming nearer to him than it had ever been. In the quivering light of a candle, the wooden rafters above his head seemed to float. He imagined Ezrail hovering around him like cigarette smell.
By Haris Ahmed
All these years and despite all odds, she had always ensured that her kids won’t turn into some petty urchins like the hundreds of children in the village, who were stuck in the vicious cycle of penury, bereft of a future of their own.
By Sameer Khan
There were a few boys, who were throwing red gulal (vermillion) on the mosque walls in a provocative manner. The crowd surged as we tried to move forward jostling amidst the many faces, laced with gulal. In the melee, someone hit me on the back and screamed, “Pakistan Murdabad” (Death to Pakistan).
Cafe Dissensus Everyday 