By Bhupinder Singh & Bhaswati Ghosh
I don’t feel like it’s a dead person’s house I’m visiting. Frida is alive and kicking, it seems, welcoming the crowd into her personal space, not shy to share her tears, convictions and even scandals with us in a way that feels honest and liberating at once.
By Bhaswati Ghosh & Bhupinder Singh
This was the cafe where Fidel Castro and Che Guevara met several times, chain smoking and drinking strong coffee, to plan the Cuban Revolution. As I enjoy eggs and hams with refried beans and look at old men being humoured by the cafe staff, I try to imagine those intoxicating times.
By Nishi Pulugurtha
The Dutch Kuthi is gone. What remains are the outer walls and dense foliage all over the place. Only that tree, with its roots embedded deep into the walls, stands testimony to its former glory.
By Lopa Banerjee
I look at the steep movement between the mountains, the soft, sensuous light trailing through the silvery mountain bends. I read their curves, bends and slopes like books of sonnets and stories, tracing each page in its sacred solidarity, as the curved landscapes ramble, roam, and converge with each other like enchanted lyrics.