Drag the crayon, watch it break. Pick it up, break it again. Breaking the crayon is making the break From reality that you seek. Dreams of reality in sleep. But the crayon keeps breaking. Will all my crayons break?  What happens when all my crayons break? Will I have to start all over again? Will you keep my coloured lines up here on this wall? Or does the city need it for some other purpose? Forget I was here, I don't want the attention.  My crayon breaks. Please buy me new

Everything has a scar look at the moon, its calm stitched with unspoken wounds. Each crack carries delight, for that is where the light finds a home. I trace my own fractures, not to mourn them but to understand how survival glows. Hope arrives softly, not as triumph, but as a trembling hand that refuses to let go. Even in darkness, I will find a way for the broken shine differently I Roopal, am a Research Scholar at the Department of English and Modern European Languages, Un

They dressed me in pronouns, and called it a truth. I wore them until my skin tore.   The mirror applauded but the flesh refuses to perform. Inside me, a revolution whispers, not loud, not safe – but alive.   I am both a wound and a weapon Each scar a sentence. Each breath a rebellion against revolution.     Dr. Neha Nagar, Assistant Professor, Dept. of English, Maharaja Bijli Pasi Government P.G College, Ashiana Lucknow Email- nagar526@gmail.com

In this digital era the digitalized emotions change with the hands running on the keyboard. Emojis, often in a row, that defy the science of hermeneutics Abbreviated messages that are as short as the short-lived feelings they intend to convey. The pictures on the screen upload desire, which the inbox messages multiply Sometimes she may bare her soul along with her body Who can dispute Donne that ‘pure lovers’ souls descend to the senses else ‘a great prince in prison lies’? T

Leaves fallen beneath a tree, crimson, ochre, brown dimpled by dusk. In windless air one rolls gently away another follows, another, yet another like butterflies I once pressed into pages; their colours gone, smudges of the past. Bookmarks dead, yet alive. I had chased one to a rose, crimson on red. Gripped it hard; yellow dust flecked my nails. Let go. It tottered, flew in zigzag lines dropped on dewy grass as if drunk. One good wing opening closing another torn, it's ye

Where memories do not keep, where tunes are confused, how do you serenade your beloved? How do you sing open skies and soaring wings, when all you see are walls? The walls grow in your cells, till blinkered, you trot on the straight and narrow. The tonga driver raises his whip and lashes. The horse neighs in pain but still obeys. Mitali Chakravarty has three books of poems: Flight of the Angsana Oriole (Hawakal, India, 2023) and Cities, Nomads and Rocks (Gibbon Moon, UK, 2024

She’s beautiful. But he hasn’t seen her beauty. He never will. She sings well. And that he hears. The heavy monsoon rain has soaked their clothes. They are together begging on the train. She’s singing a song He’s playing refrain. Some things are hard. Some things as togetherness as here beyond momentary ecstasy that the sighted keep looking for everywhere. their entire life and never find, all that beauty is here, where the quiet finger-birds in the nest of their closely held

I am Gaia, your Mother Earth My greens golds, blues, pure chroma Sustain your bewildered life Your darkness throttles me Your jigsaws pierce me  Will you never end this strife?   I birthed you as you bloomed I wrapped you in my lovelorn folds You breathed in my watery placenta You danced along my ripples You lived cosily in my moulds You ate, drank, slept, rose in songs All in my silken wreathed sheath In my shimmering grassy gold ---   You flew from azure to ether Rejuvenate

I am here! I am here! You don’t seem to listen? You don’t see what I wear! You don’t see me? I am here! On my way, I met a shivering stick. Frailty marshalled in an old rebel. On my way, I met a blind wheelchair. I saw more blindness around it. On my way, the conch shell waved in my ears… Those waves travelled through my throat, my chest, to my stomach. You don’t see me? You don’t hear me? Forgive my audacity! But, I want to ask… My thin voice lingers and disappears into the

Identities in a mirage And the identity, to identities changing the guards. Bartering self to others, feinding messages erupt yet in wane, as the target set, all set. Yes.   Time controls and commands circles, moves and pints. Whom to see? Yet it does from the tail to the mouth. Yes, it does so, and so on.   The identities in a mirage doting, cooing, finding and ogling in a chain; the fissures and craters the loop and the chain the vision, the revision and a silence that sust

They too had a coming out. It was after many days that he received a message from her. It read: “ Mayan, I have something to tell you. You know you are my best friend, and I can ’ t hide things from you anymore. I ’ m dating Amaan. I wanted to tell you this for a long time but couldn ’ t. I ’ m sorry. I just thought you should know. Please don ’ t think too much about it. Love you.” Shachi had messaged him after a month. Things could change so much in a month, he thought.Shac

There she was, Bloom, watching groceries from her basket cascading on the metallic counter. The cashier swiftly scanned each item. The beeping sound echoed in her ears, and Bloom's eyes flickered between the mundane groceries and the cashier's face—an ornate facade of merriment. Humans of the twenty-first century have mastered the art of masking despondence and coming to terms with loss. For life goes on. Life has to go on. With this thought, Bloom endeavored to generate a jo

Dr. Sarah Chen had always been invisible in exactly the way she preferred. Growing up, she'd perfected the art of camouflage: straight A's that never drew attention, achievements delivered quietly, a pleasant smile that deflected deeper inquiry. She'd learned early that being a Chinese American girl meant navigating a narrow corridor—too successful and you were a threat, too struggling and you confirmed stereotypes, too loud and you were aggressive, too quiet and you were a d

His room was empty. Bhavya stood at the doorway, the silence hitting her like a truth she'd tried hard to deny. "Of all the things I imagined... this, I wasn't prepared for," she thought. What hurt more than his absence was the weight of all the conversations that never happened. The words she swallowed. The glances that lingered too long. The hope that always overstayed its welcome. She turned away, slow and reluctant, like leaving meant accepting the end. Her thoughts wande

By Nandini Sahu Published by Black Eagle Books, 2025 ISBN: 978-1-64560-693-2 (Paperback) Price: 300 INR Language: English, pp. 126        With the release of Nandini Sahu's tenth collection of poetry, Medusa , it is high time we look at this work with rapt attention. This collection is a departure from her earlier works, and there are new ways to explore the volume. Medusa  is a work deserving a place amongst classics. While posterity will have the answer for certain, yet in

Published by CLASSIX (an imprint of Hawakal) ISBN: 978-81-988424-0-4(hardback)          : 978-81-988424-6-6 (paperback) Price: 650 INR Language: English, pp. 128.   Gopal Lahiri is an eminent bilingual poet, critic, editor, writer, prolific speaker, and a translator of more than 31 books. A recipient of the 1st Jayant Mahapatra National Award for Literature in 2024, Gopal Lahiri has made a significant contribution to Indian English literature, and his poetry collections have

I am contradictions I am aging. I am childlike. I am evolving. I stay the same. I love people. I love stuff. I am generous. I am stingy. I am humble. I am boastful. I am open minded. I am certain my way is best. I am patient. I am restless. I protest my government’s immoral, inept, and inhumane practices. I reap privilege from the same government I protest. I take refuge in my faith tradition that says I need to love my enemies. I cherry pick religious tenets and revile my en

Once upon a pre-digital time, I was a keen photographer. But now—nothing stays the same, does it?—now, I hardly take photos at all. I have a smartphone with a state-of-the-art camera, but in my hands, the phone is—let's not mince words—the phone is less than smart. Tools are only as good as the workers who wield them and—let's face it—I am a nincompoop when it comes to anything digital. Consequently, I shy away from taking photos with my phone. And so, when Petra took my pict

Review of Rendezvous With Dreams: A Poetic Exploration of Life, Loss, and Resilience By Pradeep Biswal Published by Shalandi Books, 2025 ISBN: 978-81-98329-75-2 Price: 300 INR Language: English, pp. 180   Rendezvous with Dreams  is the anthology of the bilingual poet, editor, and translator Pradeep Biswal. He has published nine poetry collections in Odia, and this is the third volume of his English poems. He is editor of kabitalive.com and curator of Toshali Literature Festi

I was very young back then, probably in class fifth or sixth. Anyway, the age does not matter. What is really striking is how those words affected my mind. While travelling by auto, I suddenly overheard a lady speaking to someone—"Teaching is the best job for a housewife. They get all kinds of vacations; weekends are off and timings will perfectly match with the school timings of their children." I was a bit surprised. If she is a teacher, then how can she be a housewife? How