Amartya Basu Part 1: The First Message Kolkata was restless that night. The damp air of the city clung to the streets, wrapped in the hazy fog that seemed to linger long after the evening rains had passed. In the quiet alleys of South Kolkata, the hum of the traffic was replaced by the distant cry of a night bird and the flicker of streetlights casting long shadows. It was in one such alley, in the decrepit building of Pataldanga, where the first message was left. Detective Anirban Ghosh stood in the doorway of the apartment, his gaze fixed…
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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…
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Tara Deshpande Part 1: First Paper Cut The essay was titled “Love is a Knife with a Sugar Handle.” Rayan D’Souza read the first paragraph, then the last, then the whole thing again in silence. It wasn’t just good—it was surgical. Each line left a mark, a strange blend of emotional vulnerability and cold detachment. The author was Aranya Sen. Roll number 07B/LIT/019. He remembered her vaguely from the second row, a girl who didn’t take notes but always looked like she was memorising the whole room. Her photograph was stapled to the file, standard college protocol, a small passport-size…