Rajesh Sharma 1 Rohan Mehta tugged his cabin bag behind him, the wheels making a soft, uneven clatter against the polished floors of Bangalore’s Kempegowda International Airport. It was close to midnight, yet the terminal buzzed with the muffled sounds of announcements, footsteps, and the clink of coffee cups echoing across the atrium. His flight to Toronto was scheduled for 12:30 a.m., but the glowing red letters on the overhead board betrayed the truth—Delayed: Next Update 2:00 a.m. He sighed, adjusting his glasses and running a hand through his hair, a familiar gesture whenever he felt the sting of uncertainty.…
-
-
Nisha Bhatt 1 The heat hit Meera the moment she stepped out of the small taxi, a dry, almost physical force that wrapped around her like an unwelcome embrace. The sun above Jaisalmer was merciless, turning the very air into a wavering haze. Yet, through the shimmer, she saw it—the great fort, its honey-gold sandstone walls rising above the old city, glowing like a mirage against the pale blue sky. The streets leading up to it were a winding tangle of ochre walls, brightly painted doorways, and the occasional splash of bougainvillea spilling over balconies. Cows wandered lazily in the…
-
Leena Iyer 1 The train slid into the Konkan station just as the sky began to gather weight. Rhea stepped down with her backpack slung across one shoulder, her camera case banging gently against her hip. The air was thick with the smell of wet earth and seaweed, as if the land itself was waiting to exhale. She hadn’t told anyone she was coming here—not her friends, not her ex, not even her editor. Gokarna was meant to be anonymous, a soft, green escape with coconut trees swaying and time ticking at its own pace. She hailed a rickshaw and…
-
Priyangshu Patil 1 Sahil sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the clock as the minute hand crept closer to midnight. The sound of crickets outside his window blended with the faint hum of the small village, but inside the room, there was a heavy silence. Tomorrow, or rather, tonight, he would be leaving his small town in Bihar and embarking on a journey that had always felt distant, almost like a dream. A dream that felt too big, too uncertain, yet necessary. He stood up and glanced at his suitcase, neatly packed with a few clothes, a…
-
আয়ুস্মান ঘোষ ১ কোলকাতার ঠান্ডা জানুয়ারির দুপুরে ছোট্ট ড্রয়িংরুমটা এক আশ্চর্য নিস্তব্ধতায় ঢেকে ছিল। মেঝের রঙচটা মোজাইক, দেয়ালে পুরনো ফ্রেমে বাঁধানো পরিবারের ছবিগুলো আর মাঝখানে কাঠের গোল টেবিলে রাখা এক ধূলিধূসর খাম—এই নিঃশব্দ পরিবেশে যেন একটা অদৃশ্য আবরণ টান টান করে টানছিল অর্ণবের মন। পাশে বসে থাকা ঈশিতা নীরবে তাকিয়ে ছিল সেই খামের দিকে। আজ ছিল তাদের বাবা বিপ্লব মুখার্জির শ্রাদ্ধের দিন, আর সবে অঞ্জলি শেষ হয়েছে। আত্মীয়রা ধীরে ধীরে চলে যাওয়ার পর ঠাকুর ঘর থেকে এসে অর্ণব ও ঈশিতার কাকু, প্রবালবাবু, একবার ঘাড় ঝাঁকিয়ে বললেন, “এইটা রেখে গিয়েছিল তোমাদের বাবা। বলেছিলেন—শ্রাদ্ধের দিন সন্ধ্যার পরে ওদের হাতে দিও। খুব দরকারি।”…
-
समीर त्रिपाठी भाग 1: एक लाश, एक सवाल बारिश की बूंदें जैसे अदालत की खिड़कियों से टकरा रही थीं, वैसी ही बेचैनी आज सत्र न्यायाधीश आरव मल्होत्रा के चेहरे पर थी। कोर्ट रूम नंबर ३ में उस दिन एक ऐसा मामला पेश हुआ था जो पिछले चार महीने से पूरे शहर में चर्चा का विषय बना हुआ था — ‘पारुल मर्डर केस’। पारुल वर्मा, 28 वर्ष की स्वतंत्र पत्रकार, जिसकी लाश पुराने पुल के नीचे मिली थी, चेहरे पर ज़ख़्म, गर्दन पर खरोंचें और हाथ में एक टूटी हुई रबर बैंड। अभियुक्त था — अर्णव चोपड़ा, पारुल का पूर्व प्रेमी,…
-
Soma Sen Chapter 1: The Ink That Blurs Souvik Khurana hated the sound of pens scratching against paper. To most people, it was nothing more than a background noise—a classroom lullaby of sorts—but to him, it was a cruel reminder of how far behind he always was. The letters on the page swam before his eyes, shifting, twisting, smudging themselves into shapes that looked like words but refused to be read. The old classroom in North Campus smelled of musty books, spilled coffee, and ambition. Dust danced in the afternoon light pouring in through the broken blinds of the Arts…
-
Aria Roy 1 The bus groaned and wheezed as it rounded the final bend, the narrow coastal road lined with swaying coconut palms on one side and the endless expanse of the Arabian Sea on the other. The salty wind carried with it the smell of the ocean, tinged faintly with fish, wet sand, and the sweet scent of mangoes ripening in the heat. Ananya Deshmukh stared out of the dust-streaked window, her heart pounding with anticipation and dread. She had left Dariya Nagar ten years ago with a suitcase full of dreams and promises of never looking back. But…
-
বিষ্ণুপ্ৰসাদ ৰাভা মোৰ নাম ৰমেশ। মই অসমীয়া গাঁৱৰ এজন মধ্যবয়স্ক লেখক। মোৰ জীৱনৰ অধিকাংশ সময় একাকীত্বৰ মাজত কটিছে। কিন্তু সেই একাকীত্বৰ মাজতো বহুতো স্মৃতি আৰু অনুভৱে মোৰ হৃদয় উজ্জ্বল কৰি ৰাখে। গাঁওখনৰ মাটি, বৃষ্টিৰ গন্ধ, পুৱাৰ পখিলা, আৰু মানুহৰ সৰলতা — এইবোৰেই মোৰ লেখনীৰ মূল উৎস। শৈশৱৰ দিনবোৰ মনত পৰিলে, যেনে বৃষ্টিৰ ছাঁইতে ভিজা এবিলাক পাতৰ দৰে মন মোৰ দুখ-কষ্ট আৰু সুখবোৰক সাৱটি ধৰে। আমাৰ গাঁওখন এখন সৰু ঠাই, য’ত মানুহে দুয়ো হাত আৰু মাটিৰ সৈতে জীৱন গঢ়ে। পিতাই কৃষক আছিল আৰু মায়ে ঘৰ চলে। জীৱনৰ সৰলতা আৰু কঠিনতা তেওঁলোকৰ মুখমণ্ডলীত স্পষ্ট দেখা পোৱা যেতো। শৈশৱৰ দিনত, পুৱাৰ পোহৰে গাঁওখন…