Visitors Now Permanent
It was meant to be a two-week Christmas trip to London, with clothes packed for the holidays and a flight back to Delhi. Then a plain-speaking phone call about primary schools changed everything. Aparna Kaul on the unplanned move that turned a family visit into more than a decade in the UK.
An Impromtu Soirée !
A Saturday afternoon text. “What are you doing tomorrow?” turns into an
Tamha ausum ghari be ghashae
After thirty-six years of forced exile, Dr. Jeewan Rawal returns — not ju
The Quiet Death of the Deep Reader
Books once held a monopoly on knowledge. Today they compete with smartphone
The Day The Mist Swallowed My World
At twelve, I was handed a note left at our gate: my father had been marked
Kailash and The Seven Chakras
On International Yoga Day, a multi-day Gyan Yoga session sparked an unexpec
Stop Scrolling: What 140 Characters Did to the Way We Think
You probably won't finish this, and that's precisely the problem. We've gon
In Focus
Songs From Nothing: The Endangered Art of Being Bored
In a world obsessed with constant stimulation, Songs From Nothing explores the vanishing art of boredom—the quiet spaces where imagination once took root. Through childhood memories of games like Antakshari and reflections on modern digital life, Dr. Sanjeev Srivastav reveals how boredom, far from being an emptiness to be filled, is the fertile ground of creativity and connection. He invites readers to rediscover stillness, to reclaim idleness as a source of insight, and to reimagine what it means to truly be alive in the age of the endless scroll.
Editor's Desk
What The Coil Leaves Behind
The rain made the heat bearable but not the mosquitoes. I tried sprays and roll-ons; finally I lit the tortoise green coil and watched its smoke curl towards the fan. In the morning only a curved grey line of ash remained, a shape that stayed whole until it did not. Three family photographs, taken across decades, registered a similar disappearance: carved latticework and lawns, then an emptied house and finally only steps where a home once stood. The coil’s slow spiral seemed the right image for what time does to memory and to the land left behind.


