Poetry by Parismita Kakati: ‘When they burn me by the river, my pyre ignites / with smoke that rises thick and not sandalwood sweet / A stench grapples the air, reeking of desire / like overripe fruit splitting under its own weight.’

Poems by Prahi Rajput: ‘the surviving curiosity / in descendant’s narrative is wrested from a ticket & one welcomes / the other through its foreign / door/translating displacement & dialect’

Poetry by Gopi Kottoor: ‘And why after that sun-dusked rainbow / Turned our eyes colour-blind // Why is it that your footprints in the dark, / Still lead me to that secret altar’

Poem by Anju Devadas R D: ‘They say the river hums here, / but no one sings along. / In this village, silence grows / like moss on every wall.’

Poems by Saurabh Suman: ‘in the music that declares the arrival of autumn— / the evening breeze caressing / almost dried-up leaves, / trembling as they cling to the stem’

Poetry by Sukrita Paul Kumar: ‘the golden sheen on the pines / beckons the waves of the grey ocean / and the silver arrows dart forth in unison’

Poems by Abhilipsa Sahoo: ‘Once, I was a little bird slowly blooming out of the warm embrace of the nest to learn the taste of first flight, believing that distance was proof of growth. Now I’m just plainly tired of being the burnt-out lamp on my parents’ windowsill’

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.’

Written with understated, sublime beauty, Sarvesh Wahie’s Mussoorie Daze (2025) is a literary and philosophical text that examines the ontology of a lost Himalayan paradise, and the changing character of memory, self, solitude, and community. By Abhimanyu Kumar

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’

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.’