On the northern side of Dholgram, a very large field hosts a fair every year–a Hair Fair, where people gather to show off their hair. The one who has the longest hair gets the highest honour. All kinds of hair can be seen–entangled, shiny, untidy, thin, black, and grey–all sorts of hairy people
I take my tea with two teaspoons of brown sugar, but some fine mornings, I betray my routine and chase the jolt in my fingers as I put the spoon down after just one or when I reach for another after the second. Even if for a fleeting moment, I love not recognising myself, not knowing where I wil
Then you will vanish—becoming Amma, Chachi, Mami. No one will remember your name.
I made my first kite out of white paper scraps; on my 16th birthday, it came to me that they needed a pop of color.
I rush to the mirror. My gums are pristine, no wound, no sin. But when I look back at the fruit, the truth reveals itself: the flesh is blackened, writhing with tiny, hungry mouths. The rot has teeth
The cream colored bowl held the steaming, almost translucent yellow broth with traces of white, garnished by an array of green onions slashed in an angle.
The rain began at dusk, its cold fingers tracing the cracked panes of the house like an unwelcome visitor. By midnight, the storm had grown wild, wind howling through the trees, rattling the fragile bones of the dwelling. I stood before the door, my hand trembling on the tarnished brass handle.
He had consistently disregarded the villagers' accounts of bhoot-prets as local folklore. To him, they were just stories to scare the gullible
Mother woke before sunrise with the weight of the house pulling at her bones and moved against the cold floor, the chill biting at her ankles. In the corner hung the gutted rabbit, its blood pooling on the floor. Her fingers trembled, as she bathed herself in it, coating her skin red.
The cream colored bowl held the steaming, almost translucent yellow broth with traces of white, garnished by an array of green onions slashed in an angle.
He had consistently disregarded the villagers' accounts of bhoot-prets as local folklore. To him, they were just stories to scare the gullible
Mother woke before sunrise with the weight of the house pulling at her bones and moved against the cold floor, the chill biting at her ankles. In the corner hung the gutted rabbit, its blood pooling on the floor. Her fingers trembled, as she bathed herself in it, coating her skin red.
In a world spun from the threads of chaos, we are born into a tapestry of shadows. We are shimmering maidens in the night, nurturing within us a fire both subtle and strong. Yet, the air around us is heavy with whispers–danger and desire intertwined.
Chaos. More chaos.
If you travel on a bus, always take the window seat.
Is it true that when we migrate, we lose a few people from our past?
Anyone could see that they were a couple very much in love. Always laughing at each other’s jokes. Finishing each other’s sentences. Name the cliché and you’ll find them living up to it without question.
The love of the city prevails over the love of kulfi
Playing with a location that seems real but is not is a tricky line to negotiate, and writer beware: you will be attacked
