Mridul Sharma Chapter 1: Arrival in Jatinga unfolds with an air of subtle unease, as Ranjit Barua makes his way into the mist-laden village nestled deep within the hills of Assam. From the moment he arrives, he senses the unusual stillness that hangs over the place, a quiet that seems almost unnatural. The village is small, with narrow winding lanes that vanish into dense forests, where thick fog curls around ancient trees like spectral fingers. Ranjit is there to report on the recent installation of 5G towers, a technological intrusion into a landscape steeped in mystery and superstition. Yet, as…
-
-
Trisha Das 1 The toy train chugged out of Ghum station, leaving behind a curl of white smoke that quickly vanished into the thickening mist. Tiasa Sen leaned against the cold windowpane of the shared jeep, her fingers absently tracing the condensation forming along the glass. Darjeeling, shrouded in monsoon fog and quiet pine-scented air, unfolded around her like a faded photograph—half remembered, half imagined. She had been here once before as a child, but the sharp edges of memory had blurred over time. Now, as an anthropologist specializing in postcolonial folklore, she returned not as a tourist but as…
-
Leena Rao Chapter 1: The Moonlit Arrival Viraj Saxena’s camera bag felt heavier than usual as he made his way down the dusty path that led to the riverbank. The sun had just set, casting an amber hue over the rugged landscape of Bhedaghat, a small town nestled by the Narmada River, near Jabalpur. Known for its towering white marble cliffs and the famous Dhuandhar Waterfall, Bhedaghat was a photographer’s dream. But Viraj had come here with a different purpose. He was after something deeper—something otherworldly. He had heard about the moonlit beauty of the marble rocks, a sight that…
-
Tarun Roy Chowdhury 1 Priyajit Sen always felt something breathing beneath the skin of Kolkata—a slow, unseen pulse carried by the rusted tramlines, the cracked facades of colonial buildings, and the tangled mess of alleyways where stories clung like moss on old bricks. At sixteen, he had grown used to slipping away after school, sketchbook in hand, to wander the city’s hidden veins. It was on one such humid afternoon, when the smell of wet books and tea leaves hung thick over College Street, that he stepped into a dusty secondhand bookstore tucked between a tea stall and a shuttered…