Priyanka Boatbyl The Silent Rhythm The sun dipped low over Bhubaneswar, casting golden hues across the temple spires that rose like sentinels over the city. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and wet earth. In the courtyard of a quiet dance academy nestled behind the Lingaraj Temple, Ankita Ratha moved like flowing water, her body bending with grace, her fingers folding into mudras that told stories older than language. Odissi was her soul. From the age of five, Ankita had trained under the strictest gurus, shedding childhood whims for the discipline of abhinaya and tala. Now, at twenty-seven, she was…

Aniket Chattopadhyay The smell of the river has always told stories. Standing at Babu Ghat as the sun dipped into the golden arms of the Hooghly, I—Aniket Chattopadhyay, a retired history professor—closed my eyes and heard the city breathe. I had spent over six decades in Kolkata, but today, I decided to write her biography—not with dates and footnotes, but with emotion. Because this city, like all great cities, is a living, breathing paradox. Chapter 1: Kalikata Before It Was Kolkata Long before trams clanged and Howrah Bridge stretched like a steel dragon, the land where Kolkata stands today was…

Saurav Dilshan Arrival in the Clouds Vinay Joshi had always believed that cities talked too much. Born and raised in Delhi, he had grown up with the sound of impatient horns, fluorescent billboards blinking at midnight, and conversations that rarely waited to be heard. His life as a novelist thrived on observation, but lately, it seemed Delhi no longer gave him anything new to see. Or perhaps it was his own eyes that had grown weary. His most recent novel—a taut, melancholic tale about a man who forgot how to feel—was received with polite applause and little else. It had…

Priyanka Tyagi Arrival in the Hills The narrow road coiled up like a silver ribbon through the pine-clad hills of Shimla. Cold mist clung to the windows of the taxi as it crawled its way past scattered cottages and sleepy shops. Aanya leaned against the window, letting the chill seep through the glass into her skin. She liked it that way—numb, silent, unbothered. Delhi had become too loud, too fast, too full of ghosts she didn’t want to name. The hills called her like a whisper in the dark. She adjusted her scarf, watching the fog thicken. The driver, a…