Sukanya Trivedi Anjali stepped off the slow-moving train, the humid air of Kerala immediately wrapping around her like a warm embrace. The station was small, almost forgotten by time, but the distant sound of temple bells and chirping birds lent it a mystical charm. Her eyes wandered over the dense palm groves that stretched endlessly toward the horizon, their silhouettes dark against the rising sun. Anjali was here for the prestigious cultural festival held in a centuries-old temple by the backwaters. The festival was renowned for celebrating classical Indian art forms, and she, a devoted Bharatanatyam dancer, had been invited…
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Chapter 1 – The Departure The evening at Delhi Railway Station was a symphony of controlled chaos. Platforms teemed with passengers clutching tickets and bags, while porters darted back and forth, balancing mountains of luggage on their heads and shoulders. Vendors hawked steaming cups of chai, fried snacks, and newspapers, their calls cutting through the din like a persistent rhythm. The scent of damp earth from an earlier drizzle mixed with the metallic tang of the rails, creating an oddly nostalgic perfume. Among the crowd, a young lawyer in a crisp suit navigated the throng with measured steps, his briefcase…
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Nandini Rao Part 1: The Meeting The streets of Bangalore pulsed with monsoon chaos that evening, headlights blurred by sheets of rain, the smell of roasted corn mixing with the damp asphalt. Somewhere in Basavanagudi, the old temple had strung marigolds along its towering gopuram, orange and yellow flames bright against the grey sky. A small crowd was gathering for the annual festival. Amid the drizzle and the scattered stalls selling jasmine garlands, a few young women rehearsed under the portico of the temple, their anklets chiming, faces streaked with raindrops and stubborn determination. Meera Iyer stood at the center,…
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Rohan A. Desai Part One – The Arrival The city was still damp from the evening rain when Maya stepped out of the cab. The streets glistened with neon reflections, every puddle a trembling mirror that caught fragments of shop lights, passing headlights, and the restless pulse of Friday night. She adjusted the strap of her bag and drew her coat closer around her body, though the air wasn’t cold so much as alive with moisture. She could feel it clinging to her skin, making her aware of herself in a way that was both uncomfortable and strangely awakening. The…
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Aarushi Sen The road curved like a tired snake up the hillside, each turn opening to glimpses of mist rolling down the pines, and Mira Kapoor sat in the back seat of the rattling jeep clutching her bag as if it might steady her heart, wondering for the hundredth time if she was making a mistake by coming here at all, leaving behind the familiar noise of Delhi, the polished glass office towers, the people who used to smile at her in corridors but no longer looked her in the eye after she had broken off her engagement with Rohan,…
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Sabyasachi Pal I The late afternoon sun dipped into the smoky Kolkata skyline as Ananya Roy’s cab crawled through the labyrinth of traffic, the air thick with the blaring of horns, the chatter of street vendors, and the aroma of frying samosas. It had been nearly fifteen years since she had last visited the city of her birth, and yet as she peered out the window, the familiar chaos carried a pulse that tugged somewhere deep inside her chest. The sari-clad women balancing baskets of flowers, the tram bells clanging faintly in the distance, the lingering scent of incense at…
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Kripesh Ojha Arjun stepped out of the rickshaw into the narrow street of the old city, his leather portfolio pressed tightly under his arm as though it might shield him from the stares of curious shopkeepers and children darting past in a whirl of marigold and dust. The haveli loomed at the end of the lane, its arched gateway half collapsed, the carved latticework dulled by soot and time. He had seen photographs in Delhi, of course—grainy images clipped to project files—but the reality was heavier, stranger. The once-vibrant frescoes on the courtyard walls were now ghostly figures, colors leached…
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Amara D’Souza The first real rain of the season unfurls like a forgotten banner over the city—trams sighing on wet rails, buses coughing mist, chai kettles whistling like small lighthouses—and I walk through it with a borrowed umbrella whose stubborn hinge clicks like a throat clearing before a confession, pale dots on the fabric sparking into constellations if I tilt it just so, and there he is again at the corner by the bookstall that always smells of glue and paper, the same man I have noticed three days running: once at the Park Circus stop where everyone stands in…
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Drishan Sengupta 1 Every morning, the Yellow Line of the Delhi Metro was a theater of hurried footsteps, weary eyes, and the rustle of bags pressing against metal poles. Aarav Malhotra boarded the train with the air of someone who did not belong to the chaos around him—his crisp white shirt tucked neatly into tailored trousers, his AirPods whispering music from some international chart-topper, his fingers idly scrolling through the latest Instagram updates. He stood tall, a brand-conscious silhouette amid the bustle, one sneakered foot tapping in faint irritation at the crowd pressing too close. At the opposite end of…
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Maya Dutta Part 1 Anaya had always believed that cities carried memories in their air. Kolkata was no different—every tram line, every peeling paint on a crumbling colonial façade, every smell of frying telebhaja in the late afternoon seemed to hold the invisible fingerprints of those who once walked there. That afternoon in early July, when the monsoon clouds pressed heavily over the city, she stood at the narrow balcony of her rented apartment on Southern Avenue, watching the first drops hit the asphalt. The rain came with its own music, a hurried staccato against tin roofs, a deeper resonance…