Ink Between my Swollen Fingers

A sad small affair Goes past In the street — men and women And budding generations Ferry along In a disenchanted cluster Merrymaking With old folk songs, timidly whining from a brand new tape recorder.

Homecoming

I came home on the first of May. The train pulled into Sealdah station fifteen minutes after its scheduled arrival time, at 10:45 AM. Platform number 9B was a petri dish full of the city’s live culture of people, teeming, bustling, and sweating, profusely sweating.

Jackfruit Season

The clouds leak constantly. I imagine someone doing laundry up in the sky, trying to wash dark smudges from the rain clouds, wringing them dry into white fluff once again. The clouds have no shame. They weep constantly, not caring that all eyes are turned towards them.

Songs for Mattur and Hosehalli

Two almost-forgotten villages stretch on either side of the Tunga. Here, centuries of exile have created a lineage that speaks remnants of a faraway tongue, borrowed vocabulary from others, made the land’s syllables her own
Mehmood Khan by Namrata Jain

The Lost Night of the Desert

Tourist’s camel ride– With a promise to find the location for shooting Of Chandani… I had imagined the throes of love with an older man at the age of fifteen, The film had given me gooseflesh. The bonfire and kalbelia dance I was ready.