We always talk about life. And then when people die, we talk about their deaths in terms of life—a life they will live for eternity in all

My tongue is standing by the road

The scene must have caught attention of those people who tend to come and go through the Farmgate area. How old may that

Lina slumped into the chair as Chameli left her room. She did not know how to tell her mother that she did not like to visit Reba

“How do I make you understand,

In The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath writes about a young woman, Esther Greenwood, experiencing the publishing industry on a summer internship, as well as life in New York City, for the first time.

The inkwell is trembling, There is the smooth rise and fall of memories, The hesitant fingers wrap the quill, The words come alive on paper, Is the scheme of life completeness of whole?

The inkwell is trembling

“Would not the immolation of a daughter of India and a son of England awaken India to its continued state of subjugation and England to the iniquities of its proceedings?” - Bina Das (1932).

Before I begin fan-girling over my Fairy Godfather, to quench the curious bibliophiles (like yours truly), the book I had been carrying around that day was Cornelia Funke's The Griffin's Feather!

Usually, newspaper pages are dedicated to venerable people who have passed away or won an award. The occasion for today's issue is neither.

Lightning strikes, Thunder roars

Here, we stand in silence;

It was a long time ago.

Shaji woke up with a pounding headache. The pain started in her sleep, so she thought she was only dreaming it. In her dream, she

From cartoons to books to movies, there is one recurring theme that catches the eye and engages all sensory experiences, and true to Proust's belief, it is the pure, unadulterated joy of a good meal.

In the silence of the heart

DU. How those letters conjure up a sense of awe and bittersweet memory. Always in the vanguard of political, progressive

I swear by my mother's milk: I swear in the name of metals and minerals, in the name of coffee and coco, in the name of land and labor, that an emergency-poem like this one needs ample prose and even crude mathematical proofs.

It is a bright Sunday morning in spring. Most of the Boulderites are enjoying the outdoors. The curious sunbeams peek through the kitchen window to greet a slim girl with curly hair. Her name is Geeta Kulkarni. She is busily working on her dishes.