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सुधांशु त्रिपाठी भाग 1 – पहली ठंडी सुबह नवंबर का महीना था। दिल्ली की सुबहें धीरे-धीरे धुंध के कपड़े ओढ़ने लगी थीं। पुरानी दिल्ली की सँकरी गलियाँ हों या नई दिल्ली की चौड़ी सड़कें, हर जगह ठंडी हवा का झोंका लोगों को अपनी ओढ़नी कसकर खींचने पर मजबूर कर देता। चौराहों पर, पार्क की बेंचों पर, यहाँ तक कि गली के नुक्कड़ों पर भी एक ही चीज़ की गंध तैर रही थी—उबलती हुई चाय की। आदित्य अपने किराए के छोटे से कमरे की खिड़की से बाहर झाँक रहा था। खिड़की के शीशे पर धुंध जम गई थी। उसने उँगली से…
Rhea Malhotra Part 1 – The Announcement The morning bell at Raipur High had always been shrill enough to cut through sleep, chatter, even monsoon thunder. But that day it sounded different—longer, harsher, like the metal clanged with purpose. Students rushed into the assembly hall, uniforms sticking with the last drizzle of rain, shoes leaving muddy half-moons on the stone floor. The ceiling fans swung lazily above us, too slow to dry the nervous sweat running down our backs. Something was off. Even the teachers stood stiff in their lines, whispering among themselves. I stood in the second row, shoving…
Maya Fernandes Liam liked mornings best when the park was still quiet, when the only sound was the distant bark of a dog or the shuffle of leaves under shoes that weren’t his own, when he could walk past the fountain and not feel the weight of other people’s eyes on him. The bench near the fountain was old, its paint chipped in places, its iron arms cold in autumn, but it was his grandmother’s bench, or at least he thought of it that way, because she had sat there with him for years, tossing breadcrumbs at the pigeons that…
Eira Sen Part 1: The Crackling The rain always came suddenly in her town, not like the timid drizzles that brushed over other places but like an argument with the sky itself. That evening, Tara was sitting cross-legged on the floor of her grandmother’s living room, tracing lines on her notebook when the storm struck. The shutters rattled, the lights flickered, and the smell of wet earth rushed in through the gaps under the door. Beside her, on the wooden cabinet that had been in the house longer than she had, stood the old Philips radio. Its red dial and…
Niharika Gupta Chapter 1: Dreams Grounded Rohan Mehra sat cross-legged on the floor of his small Bangalore bedroom, his sketchbook balanced carefully on his knees. The hum of the ceiling fan above mingled with the faint noise of traffic from the streets outside, but he barely noticed; his world existed inside the fine pencil lines and rough outlines of wings and engines. Each page of his notebook bore traces of his obsession—wing spans carefully measured, landing gears penciled in with painstaking detail, and the occasional coffee stain from late-night work when he had refused to let sleep interrupt his imagination.…
Maya Kapoor The Key in the Notebook The day it happened was one of those sticky afternoons when the corridors of Crestwood High smelled faintly of chalk dust and disinfectant, and my hands were still ink-stained from the chemistry exam I had nearly failed. I remember because the bell had just rung, scattering students like restless birds, and I was still sitting in my seat, stuffing my calculator and a half-finished answer sheet into my bag, when something thin and metallic slipped from between the pages of my notebook and clinked against the floor. At first I thought it was…
Aanya Deshpande Part 1 – Rooftop Strings The city was heavy with heat that night, even though the monsoon had broken weeks ago. Ruhi Sen pushed open the creaky terrace door of their old two-storied house in Ballygunge, her guitar clutched tightly against her chest. Downstairs, her father’s voice still echoed from dinner, rising above the clatter of utensils: “Focus, Ruhi. No more distractions. IIT is not a joke.” Her mother had nodded in silent agreement. But here, on the rooftop, she was free. The sky hung low, thick with stars blurred by smog, and the distant hum of traffic…
Aaratrika Roy The evening the horizon cracked, the sea smelled like rusted coins and wet moss, and the sky wore the color of old bruises, and I stood on the seawall gripping my father’s compass like it might point me toward a version of myself that wasn’t stuck between everybody’s pity and my own silence; gulls shrieked overhead, kids played cricket on the sand with a plastic bat that had lost its stickers years ago, Naina texted three times to ask if I was still “brooding like a Victorian ghost” and I didn’t answer because the word brooding felt exactly…
Maya Kapoor First Bell of Summer The last day of school always felt like a door being slammed shut and another thrown wide open. The classrooms still smelled faintly of chalk dust and overheated computers, the air buzzing with the kind of restless energy that only came when you knew you wouldn’t be trapped here again for another three months. I shoved my history notebook deep into my bag, even though I’d never open it again. Around me, voices rose in a mixture of laughter and relief. “Freedom!” someone shouted from the back row, and it set off a chain…
Kyra D’Souza Part 1 – The Rooftop Silence The city never really sleeps, but there are these odd hours when even the traffic feels like it’s breathing slow. Three in the morning, maybe four. You don’t check the clock because if you do, you’ll be reminded that life is running faster than you are, and you’re not ready to feel guilty again. So you let time blur, let the empty streets below hum like background music. On the rooftop of an old building where the paint has peeled into random maps, I sit with my knees pulled up, cigarette unlit…