On Patriots & Partisans

Patriots & Partisans, Ramachandra Guha’s latest offering is THE book I have been waiting for a long time. Essentially a collection of essays, the Patriots & Partisans does something few other books have attempted in the recent past, it offers a full blown, virulent defense of Indian liberalism (not liberals mind you). The book is divided into two parts, the first part dealing with a wide range of issues, from right wing hate mail to a fervent defense of Nehru to a fascinating essay on the beauty of compromise; the second part deals with issues of language and culture with the most interesting essays being on the death of the intellectual bilingual and the EPW respectively.  Continue reading

Don’t leave just yet, my love.

By Mrinalini Shinde

I walk toward the sound of the water. Or maybe the sound of the water walks me to it.  I see the brook gush and dance with joy, and the stones laugh their crystal laughter. I make myself comfortable on a rock. Break the water’s surface with my feet, and watch the ripples crash against the tiny waves. I listen to the sound of the water, and a few dragonflies buzzing about. For some reason I decide that it is as perfect a setting as any to listen to some music. Put in my headphones. Turn on the shuffle.

Continue reading

All Together and Never Ending

By-Aditi Tripathi

I want to be the feeling that spears through your heart when you open the window to a windy afternoon. I want to make you feel fresh and I want you to be happy. I don’t want to make you happy; I want you to be happy- eternally. I want that happiness should be simple for you, effortless, as it is. I want it to make you forget everything, erase memory, erase time, erase any parameter by which you can judge it, compare it with something. I want you to be happiest all the time so that in the end, your happiness feels perennial. Continue reading

Dusk

By- Padmini Baruah.

“The pinpoints may have begun lighting the inky twilight sky; I have no way of finding out. Only days are my escape. Sunlight – pure, unadulterated; sometimes streaked with orange, sometimes covered with dirty gray blotches of cloud.  – is what I am free to perceive. You who look at me with disdain, perhaps at yourself with contempt: try not to whisper false nothings about the moon and the stars into my ears. Such words mean nothing to me. Dusk can only mean to me but one idea, one concept, one facet of life.” Continue reading

Howling At the Moon: Chapter 2.

Shashank Reddy

Footsteps echo off the walls, a rhythm slowly beating life back into a long dead place. Dust, unsettled, woken from a long slumber, curious about its disturber, moving in circles around her, exploring the whiteness of her shirt, the crevices of her shoes, the inside of her nose. Touching, feeling, shadowing. Dust, always the leader of such denizens of forgotten places as cobwebs and peeling wall paint, instills a certain amount of courage into its followers. Cobwebs stroke her hair, the ceiling paint flirts with the whiteness of her shirt. She, used to such unwanted attention, brushes them aside and chooses to notice instead a fading poster depicting a man and a woman walking. Continue reading