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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…
Rajat Kapur Part 1 – The Arrival The train had been late by two hours, monsoon clouds pressing down against the old glass windows of Ernakulam Junction, making everything smell of wet earth and fried banana chips. Aarav Mehta stepped out with his suitcase in one hand, briefcase in the other, shirt collar sticking slightly to his neck from the humidity he had not yet learned to tolerate. Delhi had its own brutal weather, but this was different, a heavy curtain of air that carried salt, rain, and something he could not name. He scanned the crowded platform, searching for…
Rhea Mukherjee Part 1 – Shashthi: The First Glimpse The city had begun to wear its annual costume, and Anirban felt as though he had walked into a memory painted brighter than life itself. College Street was strung with banners, fairy lights hung like constellations caught in the wires, and the air smelled of shiuli blossoms crushed underfoot, mixing with the sharp scent of incense and fried snacks. He hadn’t been here for Durga Puja in three years, not since he had taken that job in Bangalore and left behind everything familiar—his friends, his family, and Ishita. The cab he…
Ria Mukherjee Episode 1: The First Beat of the Dhaak The city was already stirring with the rhythm of autumn. By late September, Kolkata had begun to smell different—air thick with the sweetness of shiuli blossoms, streets filling with bamboo scaffolds, and paints drying on vast clay structures that would soon transform into gods and goddesses. For Anirban, this season had always meant a sense of homecoming, even though he had never really left the city. Every lane seemed alive with anticipation, and every face carried a hint of secret joy. Durga Puja was not just a festival; it was…
Saanvi Roy Episode 1 – The Photograph The city was still shaking off the heat of late afternoon when Maya pushed her way through the crowded lanes of Chandni Chowk. Dust hung in the air like an invisible veil, clinging to her hair and the white kurta she had foolishly chosen to wear that morning. She stopped at the familiar tea stall near the booksellers, a place where she often came after long days at the architecture firm. The stall was old, its tin roof dented, its wooden counter stained with years of spilled chai, but she liked the chaos…
Chapter 1 – The Departure The evening at Delhi Railway Station was a symphony of controlled chaos. Platforms teemed with passengers clutching tickets and bags, while porters darted back and forth, balancing mountains of luggage on their heads and shoulders. Vendors hawked steaming cups of chai, fried snacks, and newspapers, their calls cutting through the din like a persistent rhythm. The scent of damp earth from an earlier drizzle mixed with the metallic tang of the rails, creating an oddly nostalgic perfume. Among the crowd, a young lawyer in a crisp suit navigated the throng with measured steps, his briefcase…
Aarushi Sen The road curved like a tired snake up the hillside, each turn opening to glimpses of mist rolling down the pines, and Mira Kapoor sat in the back seat of the rattling jeep clutching her bag as if it might steady her heart, wondering for the hundredth time if she was making a mistake by coming here at all, leaving behind the familiar noise of Delhi, the polished glass office towers, the people who used to smile at her in corridors but no longer looked her in the eye after she had broken off her engagement with Rohan,…
Sabyasachi Pal I The late afternoon sun dipped into the smoky Kolkata skyline as Ananya Roy’s cab crawled through the labyrinth of traffic, the air thick with the blaring of horns, the chatter of street vendors, and the aroma of frying samosas. It had been nearly fifteen years since she had last visited the city of her birth, and yet as she peered out the window, the familiar chaos carried a pulse that tugged somewhere deep inside her chest. The sari-clad women balancing baskets of flowers, the tram bells clanging faintly in the distance, the lingering scent of incense at…
Amara D’Souza The first real rain of the season unfurls like a forgotten banner over the city—trams sighing on wet rails, buses coughing mist, chai kettles whistling like small lighthouses—and I walk through it with a borrowed umbrella whose stubborn hinge clicks like a throat clearing before a confession, pale dots on the fabric sparking into constellations if I tilt it just so, and there he is again at the corner by the bookstall that always smells of glue and paper, the same man I have noticed three days running: once at the Park Circus stop where everyone stands in…
Maya Dutta Part 1 Anaya had always believed that cities carried memories in their air. Kolkata was no different—every tram line, every peeling paint on a crumbling colonial façade, every smell of frying telebhaja in the late afternoon seemed to hold the invisible fingerprints of those who once walked there. That afternoon in early July, when the monsoon clouds pressed heavily over the city, she stood at the narrow balcony of her rented apartment on Southern Avenue, watching the first drops hit the asphalt. The rain came with its own music, a hurried staccato against tin roofs, a deeper resonance…