Short Story by Ananda Kumar: ‘He saw the black hairy tops of their heads, less like decked on top of each other, and more like the Siamese version of foreheads stuck together, threatening to break skin and bleed to death, if one were to try pulling them apart.’

Fiction by Urmi Chakravorty: ‘She lived in a community where a woman could cement her position only after she bore children. Without a biological offspring, her worth was limited: she was like another supermarket product, destined to be discarded after a brief shelf life.’

Fiction by Samruddhi Ghodgaonkar: ‘When my foot slipped, I felt a familiar sense of suspension, the weightlessness of a social pariah, a suspension that now waited with a terrible consequence.’

Fiction by Aarushi Agrawal: ‘She couldn’t believe this was happening to her—these conspiracies, these trending hashtags, all playing out in real life. There was no need to engage. By now, Vaani and Aaqib were walking as briskly as the woods would allow.’

Fiction by Divy Tripathi: ‘Suddenly, a new hunger arose inside. A desire for instant retribution enveloped him, a sudden need to right this particular slight. “I am not your servant,” he said. “Talk with respect.”’

Fiction: “‘Please check my future,” you say, as if I were a doctor, and your future a disease.’ By Suvrat Arora

Fiction: ‘Some people tell me they were in love once. They had loved in the time when love brought disrepute; and separation even more.’ By Jyoti Singh

‘The net hadn’t made her view of the sky any less clear, but she had felt imprisoned in its presence, even more so than she already did in the tedium of days she had accepted as her life.’ By Priyanka Sacheti

Short story by Rhea Gangavkar: ‘I looked at the hospital’s main gate; how many people were here for the same thing? I looked at Megha. She was staring at the sky as she softly whispered, “It might rain.’”

Short story by Ushma Shah: ‘There was a pale, mouldy smell around him, and then, Abhi smelled himself. He had a stench, too, mouldy, and woody, and old.’

Short story by Sachin Ravikumar: ‘The pink tabebuia is a picture of quiet grace. It does not impose. Its presence is a welcome respite from a noisy, polluted city perennially draped in tones grey or garish… Was this tree really from here? Were we still in Bangalore?’

Short story by Aishwarya Khale: ‘When I thought about the past, I thought about memory. I wondered if Mr Shinde would forget us, like shattered dolls collapsing through the broken chambers of his mind.’