Short Story by Biswajit Chatterjee: ‘But this peculiarly-formed lad is an altogether different animal when he is in water. With his unfamiliar yet uncanny ability, he learns to handle the waves, the deadly undercurrents, the movement of the swells, the whirlpools.’

Poems by Arya Gopi: ‘I carry my exile in my pocket— / seventeen reminders that buzz / like electronic prayers / to gods who’ve forgotten / how to synchronize.’

Personal Essay: Who has access to knowledge? Ph.D. scholar Swathi Priya explores how multidisciplinary lenses of caste inclusion, neoliberal market, liberal ideology, mental health imperatives, and literature inform her larger research goals.

Poems by Agni Barathi: ‘What impossible simile / will suffice, my love, / to sing of my real, utter ruin?’

Poetry: ‘Things lying around, still, cautious / Tell-tale signs, of nothing / Butter, a knife and a pen / A diary of poems now lost’

Fiction by Ranu Uniyal: ‘Like old times, they each sit in their own shells. Unable to communicate. Unable to speak. Like old times their eyes still search for each other in familiar spots. Somehow, they never meet.’

Poem by Maansi Sharma: ‘the rabbit on my foot, startled like the river, / coursing through the bed, giggling at our feet. / there is soup and bread and tea and honey for the quiet ache. / we don’t need to eat god for breakfast.’

Poems by Meenakshi Jauhari: ‘It has all been done – she has aged, and arrived, / and, one day, will leave. / Her day passes, and leaves behind no residue. / Her night weaves a starry reality she remembers briefly, for a few / waking moments. Then it too evaporates, leaving no trace.’

Poetry by Kamakshi Lekshmanan: ‘a man influences a knife, sways the auburn twigs. gentle and soft. // the heap of brunet lay aside, / besides a pair of eyes submit – in gratitude.’

Poems by Laila Brahmbhatt: ‘On the city’s edge, where destiny echoes, / hope crawled through cracks. / Even roses in New Delhi / orphan their thorns.’

Poem by Hiranmayi Krishnakumar: ‘There’s a chair by the window / waiting for someone who doesn’t arrive / in this version. / The cushion sinks on its own. / It has good memory foam. / The fan spins like it’s trying to erase the century.’

Poetry by Mary Tina Shamli Pillay: ‘Pressured through the / mist, we are tormented / by the sharp blue sky, / the muffled din of a / wailing child, the crackle / of a hostess, the wrapping / unwrapping of smiles.’