The Quiet Death of the Deep Reader
Books once held a monopoly on knowledge. Today they compete with smartphones, algorithms and a sixty-second attention span, and they're losing ground. But this essay argues the decline isn't about worth, it's about environment. As speed replaces reflection and emotion outpaces reason, reading has become narrower rather than irrelevant: fewer people encounter books directly, yet those who do often go on to shape institutions, ideas and generations. A meditation on what survives when attention becomes the world's most valuable currency, and why sustained reading may matter more, not less, in a distracted age.
Am I a Good Parent?
Every parent wonders, "Am I a good parent?" For immigrant parents, this que
The Teacher Hidden Within the businessman
To the world, Santosh Kumar Raina was a Srinagar businessman known for inte
Letter to Daddy
On Father's Day, and on the eve of his birthday on Zaistha Ashtami, a daugh
Peppa Pig to F1: A Father’s Journey with His Girl
From Peppa Pig marathons to Formula 1 weekends, this is a quiet story of tr
Oxymoronic Paradoxical Matrix
What if the questions you've been desperately seeking answers to were never
Haakh
Far from Kashmir, in a modest Chandigarh garden, a physics teacher finds hi
In Focus
Ten Steps Ahead
A few weeks before her final medical exams, a young doctor lost her father — the one person who had wanted her qualification most. Years later, an Excel spreadsheet on his computer revealed the truth: long before anyone else, he had understood she was neurodiverse, and had quietly carried the logistics, the deadlines and the planning she struggled with, never once making a performance of it. A Father's Day tribute to a man who measured love in actions, not words.
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.


