Posts by Soumya Chakraborty

Sahina

When Sahina boarded the local train, the commuters stepped aside. It was nine-thirty in the evening. A sudden heavy downpour had delayed all the trains, bottlenecking the suburban railway stations in the city.   More than her appearance, it was her flat claps that people despised. Sahina knew it from their faces; the way some men pretended to be asleep when she was around them. Others seemed to be worried

Blue Branches, Red Leaves

I was born in a world where old, withered flowers that have for years rested within the pages of old books are cherished, and the same world it is, where sagging breasts are not considered lovely.   I was born in a world where art is a helpless victim of religion. Where writers and artists have been murdered because they dared to break through the confines of social barriers and

Santa

<script async src=”//pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js“></script> <!– taw-responsive –> <ins class=”adsbygoogle”      style=”display:block”      data-ad-client=”ca-pub-3446446293618986″      data-ad-slot=”1428227755“      data-ad-format=”auto”></ins> <script> (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push({}); </script> “Mum, I want one,” he said, pointing to the row of miniature Santas displayed in the store.   “But Babu, we are Hindus. It is okay if we don’t celebrate Christmas,” she bent down and told him, gently brushing his hair with her

Children of Heartless Gods (Part 2 of 2)

<script async src=”//pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js“></script> <!– taw-responsive –> <ins class=”adsbygoogle”      style=”display:block”      data-ad-client=”ca-pub-3446446293618986″      data-ad-slot=”1428227755“      data-ad-format=”auto”></ins> <script> (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push({}); </script> (continued from Part One)   I cross the street and stagger towards Galel’s home which is now a pile of bricks, beds, fans and blue curtains. The only trace of a structure not in pieces is a flight of stairs which led upstairs

Children of Heartless Gods (Part 1 of 2)

<script async src=”//pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js“></script> <!– taw-responsive –> <ins class=”adsbygoogle”      style=”display:block”      data-ad-client=”ca-pub-3446446293618986″      data-ad-slot=”1428227755“      data-ad-format=”auto”></ins> <script> (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push({}); </script> February 2012 Homs, Syria   Dismembered children, orphaned toddlers, lifeless mothers, hopeless fathers, green army tanks circumventing pits of fire that have burned for days, and troops of gunmen firing in the open streets, have gained a perpetual presence on our televisions for

Victory

<script async src=”//pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js“></script> <!– taw-responsive –> <ins class=”adsbygoogle”      style=”display:block”      data-ad-client=”ca-pub-3446446293618986″      data-ad-slot=”1428227755“      data-ad-format=”auto”></ins> <script> (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push({}); </script> “Open your palm,” my daughter’s tutor instructed, poking her folded fingers. She resisted with a frown until I shot a stern gaze at her.   She opened her palm slowly, concentrating on each finger, one by one.   “Now, bring your hand close

Unspoken and Intangible

 “Hello,” I said, wondering why she had called me at that hour, given that we generally talk to each other at night.   “What are you doing?” Mum asked.   “Just had my lunch. You?”   “Nothing. Oh, I just forgot what I had called to tell you,” she said.   “You’re getting old,” I said, smiling.   “No. So I was telling you, today is 7th of April. Do

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Human Rights

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Offer Letter

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Letter