A poem by John Copley Alter: ‘what was indigenous / in our childhood’s garden? became / native, mother tongue—our flora— / blossoming…’

In Zilka Joseph’s new collection In Our Beautiful Bones, Chintan Girish Modi celebrates the in-betweenness of cultures, the confluence of food, culture, politics, religion, and beauty from the vantage point of an Indian displaced abroad.

Poetry by Harsh Anand: ‘everyone pointed out, / the crevices in my bones, / as if I am unaware of my own biology, / as if my suffering is more endurance than expression.’

What’s The Chakkar? Episode 16: We’re reading Krupa Ge and Gary Shteyngart; watching 83; and listening to Aditi Ramesh. Featuring Shaista Vaishnav, Prateek Santram, and Ady Manral. Hosted by Karan Madhok.

Poetry by Sana Ahmad: ‘Why more poems are created at cemeteries rather than nurseries; and the living seek to write the voices of the dead.’

Distortions and intimacy, revulsions and beauty: Celebrating the art of one of India’s great masters—Jogen Chowdhury—whose work continues to provide new insights to our world. By Medha Dutta Yadav

An overpopulated trip to Kedarkantha made Aman Panwar reflect on the dangerous rise of ‘tourist-trekkers’ in the Himalaya, where unprepared throngs are destructing the natural habitat and profits are being made at the cost of environment.

Poetry by Karan Madhok: ‘the plants once shared an iridescent home / but nothing on the balcony survives / exposed under the naked rays’

A true Indian tale of agrarian crisis, caste, and gender inequalities, is brought together in the graphic narrative, Raindrop in the Drought—the story of Godavari Dange. By Priyanka Chakrabarty

Original poetry and art by Shamayita Sen: ‘whirring ceiling fan / performing Kathak tarana in solitude’

Head of design at Penguin Random House India Ahlawat Gunjan discusses the art of book covers, the collaboration of literature and design, of sales and inspiration, and the magic process making it all come together. By Varud Gupta

Poetry by Shivangi Mishra: ‘The calm stillness of those frosty mornings of yesterdays / Still echo in my dreams, / Ruffled within a distant silhouette of past’