Short story by Vishnu Bagdawala: ‘Sometimes, I would lie in bed waiting for the tears to come. Sometimes, I would wonder how it was strange that we needed to sleep in order to be awake for the rest of our lives. Until the day when, like my grandfather, we fall into an eternal sleep.’

Short story by Debi Mukherjee: “Unlike the little girls I see outside temples, draped in their pano bhaju’s stringing garlands of Marigolds, I dare not play with the flowers in our garden. Papa cautions me against the rows of Mogras, Shoe-flowers, Frangipanis and a multitude of others. He says that I must not be lured by a flower’s fragrance.”

Poetry by Priyanka Aravind P.: ‘I too had a mother, / Who fed me with knowledge so ancient, / And called me her brightest star, // until I misspelt a note from the sacred chants.’

Poetry by Sindhuri Rao: ‘Keep everything you bought here— / your eager dreams, / hanging garments, / obedient smiles, / unpressed rages, too. / “Be our guest.”’

Poetry by Suhana Bhattacharya: ‘i measure distance / not in miles / but in the way my mother says “beta” / over a lagging call / where her voice arrives before her breath’

Short story by Ayaan Halder: ‘I could feed my children chicken and rice for a week, without having to shout at them for not wanting the fried bhendi they’ve been eating for the last three days. I could cover half a month’s rent with that money, for god’s sake! And you spend it on a wretched T-shirt that doesn’t even bear the colour of the sky?’

Short story by Khadija Rehman: “Some flowers bloom even when they shouldn’t. This one grows in cracks, drains, broken walls. Shameless little thing. You can forget about it, and it’ll still be there tomorrow.”

Personal Essay by Jahnavi Gogoi: ‘It was obvious that the word “Militant” was not etched on anyone’s face. My mother kept saying it, late into the night, as if to convince herself that Lohit now had blood on his hands.’

Poetry by Siddh Dutta: ‘Her hours went into my becoming, / cruel it feels now / to realize how freedom can vanish without chains. / How may one choose a cage / and call it duty?’

Poetry by Kartikay Agarwal: ‘Will the last book of the last people to write books / (when all else is said) at the end just say ‘write to me’? // The wheel spins the pot to life, yet leaves no trace, / You be potter, mould life into my clay—write to me.’

Short story by Madhurjya Goswami:‘It was only after the state police’s operations were over, after the troops with sniffer dogs scoured every nook of the city, after the NDRF’s neon orange jetties sliced across the grey Brahmaputra, that the body of singer Niren Rajkhowa washed up on the banks of the river in a quiet and leafier corner of Kharguli.’

Poetry by Bunny: ‘I dip the iris in soy / and watch the dark eat the color. / Still, through the stain, I see you.’