Ohona Anjum

Shirin could barely walk after the accident; her lungs gave in anytime she took more than twenty steps. In between, bed rest and medications exhausted her body but never her spirit. She was someone who could be described as being made of liquid sun – warm, radiant, bright – anything and everything people thought a differently-abled person couldn't be.

The bus stop was empty as usual, I sat waiting for a sight of one. Then he came. A man in a faded red shirt with a bag hanging on his back, running as if the devil himself had taken out a lease on his shadow.

This was the way it ended: not with fire, But carried quietly under sleep-beds,

He brought the jasmine to his nose, inhaled its narcotic sweetness, and wondered if maybe, just maybe, it was true.

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

To many, collections are personal archives. They are reflections of tastes and values, and, to this day, the beauty of those tangible experiences remains.

Who do I tell, sir? The walls do not listen, The roads do not answer back

Having mindful conversations is about fostering a culture of mutual understanding and emotional depth.