1 The taxi crawled through the labyrinthine lanes of North Kolkata, its honking lost beneath the tangle of tram bells, rickshaw wheels, and street vendors’ cries. Anwesha Chatterjee pressed her forehead against the window, staring at a city that was at once familiar and foreign. She had grown up here, in fits and fragments, spending summers in her father’s ancestral home before moving to Delhi for college and then her law career. Now, at twenty-eight, she was returning not as a visitor but as heir, summoned back by her father’s death. The car pulled up before the massive wrought-iron gates…
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Sandip Chakraborty 1 The tram bell chimed faintly, its echo vanishing into the hushed expanse of Esplanade. Midnight in Kolkata had its own kind of silence—a silence alive with the creak of tram rails, the hiss of distant buses, and the occasional bark of stray dogs. Arup Chatterjee, in his worn khaki uniform, stood at his post with the familiarity of a man who had repeated this routine for thirty years. His eyes scanned the tram’s interior, dimly lit by yellow bulbs that flickered as though uncertain of their duty. There, in the corner seat, as always, sat the passenger.…
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Nikita Kaul 1 The first time Tanvi Mehra heard about the chalk outline was during her third day at St. Augustine’s Residential Academy for Girls. It was whispered between two girls in the library, their voices low but their eyes flickering with unmistakable fear. The words “outline,” “disappears,” and “Ragini” caught Tanvi’s attention like hooks in water. She leaned further behind the old geography shelf, heart thudding—not from belief, but curiosity. She had transferred here from Delhi after a messy school suspension and an even messier stepfather situation. Her mother called this place a “fresh start.” Tanvi called it a…
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Isha Mirza 1 Rhea Sen stepped off the dusty evening train into the heart of Lucknow, her senses immediately overwhelmed by the city’s curious blend of melancholy grandeur and stubborn life. Rickshaws rattled past the faded gates of old nawabi havelis, and the air carried the scent of marigolds, incense, and the distant, lingering sweetness of attar. As an art historian specializing in forgotten women of the Awadh court, she had dreamed of this moment for years: to walk the same stone paths once graced by courtesans whose dances whispered through history only in half-remembered couplets and brittle letters. Rhea…
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Diptayan Chakraborty 1 Dawn had only just begun to stir over the ancient lanes of Kalighat, where the smell of incense curled lazily around moss-stained walls and the rhythmic clang of temple bells blended with the cawing of crows perched like sentinels on crumbling terraces. Yet the sacred calm was shattered when a ghastly discovery emerged by the eastern steps of the Kalighat temple—a young woman’s lifeless body laid out as if in offering, her limbs arranged with eerie deliberation, fresh blood pooling around ritual markings that even the old flower sellers couldn’t recognize. Inspector Arindam Chatterjee arrived at the…