Poetry by Goirick Brahmachari: ‘Love is like the wild lilacs, white / Apple trees over green meadows, / Riverstones I have walked over / For years— splattered, irate, broken.’

Short story by Madhurjya Goswami: ‘You ask yourself a question: How does a fallen airplane look? Does it look like a pigeon squashed to the ground, its neck askew? And the hot, unplastered room answers: well, you’ve got to see it yourself.’

Poetry by Vinita Agrawal: ‘The valley hums every summer— / the murmur of a year’s worth of wounds. // It seems nature remembers / what we’ve have tried to bury.’

Poetry by Devika Mathur: ‘Curtains fall from dawn to dusk. / A river to see her face. / Shining clouds bring flowers to her. / An admirer of nightingales and lanterns.’ 

Personal Essay by Namrata: ‘Language is meant to bring us closer. To help us say: I see you. I want to understand you. I care enough to learn your words. And when we turn language into a line in the sand and use it to exclude, to shame, to assert dominance, we forget its most sacred purpose: to connect.’

‘However, the happiness was short lived. Soon there was a knock on the door and all hope of love was lost for them. Ayush’s family had informed the police that their son had gone missing for a few hours, and they suspected he had been kidnapped by militants.’ By Arshi Javaid

Short story by Parthosarothy Mukherji: ‘“This is not a Miss Bum Bum contest,” Ash declared to his reluctant collaborators. “This is dignity through exposure. Democracy through anonymity. Art for the masses—by displaying their asses.”’

Poetry by Paromita Patranobish: ‘A comet catches fire, she knows / It is her plexus exhaling / The ghost of trauma, / This is the closest she will / Come to maternity’

Creative Nonfiction by Shivangi Mishra: ‘The street neatly divides the forest landscape into two almost symmetrical halves, but would the creatures of the wild adhere to road etiquette? In the human world, boundaries bespeak identity, and boundaries help masquerade.’

Short Story by Soham Guha: ‘She will not know the scent of freshly sown grass, the fragrance of blooming flowers, the sound of breaking waves, the songs of birds, the hymns of cicadas, the taste of ripening mangoes, the warmth of the earth. She will never know her home like me.’

Short story by Aditi Dasgupta: ‘Families didn’t merely eat; they communed with their past. Meals were tapestries woven from memory, where each ingredient carried the weight of ancestors, where every bite was a step into history.’

Poetry by Jyotish Chalil Gopinathan: ‘Pressing my ear to the ground / straining to hear / the universe speak. / The faintest tremor / of the butterfly wing’

Poetry by Anushka Chavan: ‘Will you drag me onto the shore, or should I become the tide? / Will you bring me home, to the river, / Or will I be lost in the hills once more?’

Photo Essay by Karan Madhok: ‘I’m still feeling the nasha of this place the next morning; it’s a glow of inner joy, a celebration of each scintilla of being alive. I feel the feathery wafts of mountain breeze, see the clear horizon appearing after the night’s downpour, and watch farm animals grazing on grass, soaking in the morning sun.’

Poetry by Shobha Tharoor Srinivasan: ‘somewhere, / in the quiet / of this new world, / a new rhythm / begins to hum.’

Poem by Manasha Sharma: ‘stumbling and mumbling it shows itself / in a half unscathed smile / in ragged dirty clothes, / my love homes itself before it gathers space.’

A letter to a friend lost carelessly: ‘With shut eyes, I see you and then myself, rushing around in strange, centripetal circles. Lost souls in fish bowls, swimming around a quiet and darkened running-track’ By Ayaan Halder

The Great Nicobar Betrayal (2024) is essential reading for anyone concerned about India’s ecological future and the future of our species on Earth. Tansy Troy discusses the collection with an inspired set of illustrations of the island’s many breathtaking species.

Fiction by Sarthak Sharma: ‘I caught no more reflections. Soon enough, I smelled cattle. The truck moved away from Praznath. In my rush, I had carried the old T-shirt, carrying with it the dust of my home.’

Poetry by Sreeja Naskar: ‘i am learning how to measure loss in rings. / each year, the body thickens. / each year, the body splits. / no one asks why the tree bends — / they only marvel at the curve.’

Poetry by Goirick Brahmachari: ‘Your absence floats in / Within my house of shadows, / And stale miseries, / Broken windows; breezing in / Lost islands of fog and snow.’

Flash fiction by Shaurya Pathania: ‘It was grumpy until it greeted me, he could talk; a crab in my house, a crab in my house that could talk; and that too in standard English. I wasn’t dreaming. He claimed that he had lived there for longer than he could remember.’

Poetry by Ajanta Paul: ‘If Bangla is the resonance / of raindrops on the soul / English is the petrichor / of poetry that emanates from / the rain-moistened earth / of my being.’

‘Your book felt like the scent of passing months, layered with flowers, rain, spring and autumn—a scent that reached into the city’s deep burrows.’ By Sufia Khatoon

Fiction by Mandira Mitra Chakraborty: ‘I try not to behave like my mother and accept a session of pedicure without making it about civilization and its discontents. I am in no hurry to die, but I shall go quietly when He comes.’

Photo Essay by Abin Chakraborty: ‘Kolkata is a kaleidoscope: turn your gaze and a new pattern will emerge. What you wish to see is therefore a combination of what you want to see and what your gaze is capable of perceiving.’

Fiction by Ayaan Halder: ‘We tell each other that she must’ve found her peace. But her memory trickles down to my fist, and it feels heavier. As if it were carrying the slow-congealed weight of all the blood that you and I have drawn from each other.’

‘I board a bus to Biswabangla, wearing a grey shade, mask, olive hibiscus t-shirt, lemon green hair band, loose crimson brown hair, mild sweat, and the will of forgetting.’ By Sufia Khatoon

Poetry by K.S. Subramanian: ‘In a year its ambience malodorous / Inch of space making way to concrete. / Green unseated by thick red brick’

Fiction by Tansy Troy: ‘It is his image which comes to me now, teaching me mastery over illusion, instructing me how to transform my present suffering into future fortune. When we met him in the flesh, he blessed me with the name Tashi Tsomo. Auspicious feminine ocean.’