Isla Verma The Letter in the Book It was a Sunday shaped like rain. The city hadn’t yet decided if it wanted to pour or pretend, and Anaya stood under the torn yellow canopy of a second-hand bookstall near Churchgate, letting her fingers glide across spines of the forgotten. The old man who ran the stall smoked a cigarette with one hand and flipped through pages with the other, not even looking up as she pulled a faded copy of Wuthering Heights from the stack. The pages were frayed at the edges, browned like toast. Anaya loved that. She liked…
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Ayaan Venkatesh Sand Without Time Haider Khan stepped down from the rickety minivan with the stiffness of a man far older than his 38 years. The heat pressed against his face like a hand that didn’t care for permission. Red sand stretched endlessly ahead, framed by towering rocks carved into bizarre, wind-scoured shapes. Wadi Rum. He’d seen it once in a documentary, years ago. “The Valley of the Moon,” the narrator had called it. But here, in real time, there was no poetry. Only stillness. Only silence. The group disembarking with him was an odd assortment — a French woman…
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Riaan D’Souza 1 Rain fell like memory over the shanty roofs of Dharavi, each drop tapping out a rhythm older than the city itself. Inside the dimly lit, one-room Dharavi Chess Club, the walls smelled of damp wood and resignation. But within that space, a quiet miracle unfolded every evening. His name was Arjun Menon—ten years old, barefoot, and already a mystery to the men who came here to play. The board was his world. The black and white squares did not care who you were outside their borders. They did not ask how much money your father made or…