Ritam Ghosh 1 Camille’s journey to Kolkata begins under the oppressive weight of the city’s humid air, which clings to her skin like a second layer of consciousness. As she steps out of the train at Howrah station, the cacophony of honking taxis, shouting vendors, and the rhythmic clatter of the tracks overwhelms her senses. The air smells of sweet smoke from nearby tea stalls, mingled with the faint metallic tang of the river water, and for a moment, she feels suspended between fascination and disorientation. Every turn of the bustling platform offers a new sight: porters balancing impossibly large…
-
-
Natasha Shrivastav Chapter 1 – The Waters Rise Chennai woke to a city unrecognizable, drowned in the relentless aftermath of the heaviest monsoon the region had seen in decades. The Marina Beach, usually a sprawling stretch of sand dotted with morning walkers and street vendors, had become a surreal tableau of destruction. Waves, tinged with debris and refuse, lapped angrily at the submerged roads, while low-lying neighborhoods resembled shallow lakes, rooftops and treetops barely protruding above the rising water. Families huddled on makeshift rafts, carrying children and belongings, as emergency sirens wailed through the humid, rain-laden air. The government had…
-
Meera Chandrani Part 1 — The Envelope The envelope was the colour of old bones—thin, brittle, and unreasonably light. It was waiting on my desk when I returned from a morning beat at the magistrate’s court, wedged under my keyboard as if it had crawled there and died. No sender’s name, no return address, just my own printed neatly in black: ANANYA BASU, CITY CRIME. I rubbed at the fine dust that clung to it and felt a prickle—something metallic shifting inside with the slimmest rattle. “Fans of your work,” said Sayan, the photographer, peering over his camera like an…
-
Nirmala Iyer Chapter 1: The Festival Night The small temple town of Thiruvelli, nestled between rolling hills and fields of swaying paddy, had long lived in quiet rhythm, its people rising with the temple bells and sleeping to the lull of evening chants. But during Panguni Uthiram, the silence broke into a grand spectacle of devotion and festivity. From dawn, narrow streets lined with banyan trees overflowed with pilgrims who had walked for miles barefoot, carrying offerings of coconuts, garlands, and pots of milk. Stalls selling sweet jaggery pongal, jasmine flowers, and brass lamps dotted the lanes, their fragrances mingling…
-
Kunal Deshmukh Part 1 — Placards and Proposals Arjun Mehta had never imagined that life as a broke engineering student would lead him to standing in the arrivals terminal of the city airport, clutching a glossy white placard with names written in bold black marker. He wasn’t even supposed to be here. His real job was to fix malfunctioning printers in his hostel and build circuits for his classmates in exchange for Maggi packets, but when his college senior told him about this “easy money gig” at the airport—just hold a sign, smile politely, and hand over the passenger…
-
Amaya Rao Part 1: Under the Metro Roof The rain arrived like a rumor that suddenly remembered it was true. One minute Delhi was gray and heavy with threat; the next, it cracked open and poured everything it had onto Rajiv Chowk. The metro announcement dissolved into static. Commuters shrank under bags and newspapers and dignity. Somewhere above, a billboard for a weekend sale sagged, the model’s perfect smile beaded with water like perspiration she couldn’t admit to. Aanya stood just inside the station entrance and felt the rain push its fingers toward her toes. She drew them back, as…
-
Rahul Malhotra One The summer sun was already high when Rohan, Anya, Kabir, and Tara found themselves assigned to the same group for their history project, a mundane school task about the “lost traditions of Himachal.” At first, they treated it with typical teenage indifference, expecting a few hours of research in the library and a quick, perfunctory presentation. Rohan, with his love for photography, suggested documenting old artifacts in the town; Kabir, always the skeptic, rolled his eyes at the thought of dusty legends; Tara, the organized one, insisted on interviews with the elders; and Anya, curious and restless,…
-
Rajesh Parekh Dawn came to Puri like a slow bruise as the Bay of Bengal heaved against the shore, and when the water pulled back it left more than shells and plastic cups; it left a girl whose hair spread like seaweed, whose red kurti clung like skin, whose cheek bore a crescent of sand as if the beach had tried to close her eyes. Sankar Pradhan found her because he was always earlier than the gulls, because nets do not wait for proper daylight, because the sea pays better attention to men who arrive first. He waded, shouted, and…
-
Leena Mishra The train wound its way through the folds of the mountains like an old memory refusing to fade, screeching at curves where the mist clung thick to the windows and blurred everything into water and white. Rhea Kapoor pressed her forehead to the glass, her phone long dead, her city life now just a bundle of buzzing silence inside her bag. Delhi had been too loud, too fast, too brutal, each day a race against something she could not name, and she had fled without much of a plan, booking the first guesthouse she found online in a…
-
Aanya Roy Part 1: Arrival in Chandrapur The monsoon had begun its slow, deliberate siege over Bankura, draping the laterite hills in a persistent, misty gray. Every hill and hollow seemed to hold a secret, every forested path whispered with wind and rain. Arjun Sen’s jeep rolled over the slick red clay road, tires squelching in protest, as he left the asphalt of the district town behind and entered the forgotten spine of Chandrapur. The village appeared as if it had emerged from another century—terracotta temples leaning in tired dignity, mud walls patched with moss, and narrow lanes where…