From the top of Golkonda Fort, life flows downward, a bit tilted, light-breezed, like spring's dead root

It was the winter penance of the blue frozen men—to hand-pump pure, warm waters from the gritty darkness, while the common supply lines froze and clogged.

Portrait of Georgy Chulkov by Zinaida Serebryakova. Pre-Loved [only serious buyers contact] For Sale: Human companion (pre-loved) Acquired a lifetime ago, moderately used In good condition, slight bruising on the heart Bill, accessories not included Orignal box baggage & regret Coping mechanism replaced 2023 Recently serviced, new skin applied No warranty Can meet at common spot / shipping charges if out of effort coverage Price: 1000 nights' sleep /- (negotiable) Reason for

क्षितिज पर एक खिड़की बंद होने लगती है वृक्ष की फुनगियों पर टिका आकाश वापस लौट जाता है लेकिन कोई दावा नहीं करता।

Forever blue Sometimes I wonder: who owns the metaphor? who has an absolute right over how I see what I see under star-lit skies? —a kitten’s shiny plaything around shrines that sleep at night I can’t write a story when I’m not writing a story but when am I not writing about you? it’s funny how you shape-shift how you’re spelled after a vowel in urdu, after a pause you break into a subtext I break into laughter in what Stacy would call mashriqi english mine is bad — I am neit

Obsession, 2026, directed by Curry Barker, is a supernatural and psychological horror film that has become one of the highest-grossing movies of the year.

The soft singing of the afternoon light fills the library cafeteria. My daughter learns to walk between the tables; her tiny hand curled around my husband’s index finger. The air swells with coffee and pasta. Pages turn in the corner, voices murmur, children run, laughter ricochets. My fingers warm around the curvature of my cup, and my eyes follow the steep lines in my book. Warsan Shire writes, “Mama, I made it out of your home alive, raised by the voices in my head” a

I have been turning something over in my head for a while. It started with a strange idea someone mentioned in a conversation. What if a woman in a wheelchair became the most powerful person in her building just because people forgot she was there?

And So To Dream of You And so to dream of you And to tell those mysterious streams in me That disobediently flow back to you again, To stop and think, Of what you said, My breath on your cheeks, A quiet after spread What you did To sculpt such loneliness In me Among the garden trees Where we once together were And to tell you I have no one else Cast in that lost spell Where to be with you again Is to turn aspen And sing alone With all the trembling nightingales Once B

Now the mango tree has been cut down, confused birds fly around an empty concrete blob. The veena’s strings are rust-coated. No newspapers form a layer under the dingy bed.

Watching Hamnet is like being slowly emptied out from the inside. You keep falling deeper into a sadness that feels like it has no bottom.

Marriage is too old, too sacred to be questioned outright so we keep constructing more “good women" - Women who fight exactly this much and no more. Good girls play with dolls. Good girls get their dolls married. Good girls are not even allowed to pause and imagine that marriage could bring anything except happiness — because that would be inviting the devil. Good girls are taught that marriage is happiness, full stop. Good women wake up early, water the holy plant in the fro

The House That Remembers In every ruined house, there is a room that remembers– a door half open for someone who doesn’t return. The walls feel warm; they carry your pulse. I feel it too, like a moth kissing a lantern religiously. Like furniture, absence settles in the house, echoing with our first conversation– heavy, tarred and bitter. The staircase moans in your wounded voice: “Do not walk on me, I am not ready.” The windows keep asking for you, I mistake the fog for your

प्रभात की कविताओं का आम आदमी इस देश का मध्यमवर्गीय और ग़रीब आदमी है। उसे भरे बाज़ार में घिसी चप्पलों का तकिया लगाकर नींद आ जाती है।

Allow me Oblivion Tight-lipped leaders fly private jets in the same sky that houses the military drones. A country that begs to be understood, or saved, or loved, goes missing on the maps of our busy schedules and under ourmoney machines. The needy look at our luxury bags, and we pluck a ten-rupee note for them. A broken neon sign on a house whispers of flickering human bonds. Tears painted as flowers on the walls, rusted sometimes, retouched sometimes. How often does money m

have walked through the ages, infant earth suckling at my breast. Unfazed by skies peeling their skins in interglacial storms and time warps

A gentle breeze leads metoward a house with no mailbox, no nameplate, yet where the fragrance of my ancestors lingers in the wind. The house with no nameplate A gentle breeze leads me toward a house with no mailbox, no nameplate, yet where the fragrance of my ancestors lingers in the wind. Sometimes, a sudden shower washes the dust from the courtyards, where I can hear my great grandfather’s fading voice on his harmonium. The strings still miss him, he who sang lullabies, wed

I can’t see aspirational value in Diwali labour or any form of domestic labour, because all I have seen of it is exhaustion.