Khôra / खोरा  

Theyyam, circa 2025 Some stories feel like a way of running away. But the best ones do something stranger and gentler. They bring you back. Back to a door you did not know was yours, in a house you have never seen, where another person’s longing fits, almost eerily , the exact contour of your own. That is the quiet trick of a stranger’s daydream. It loosens the seams of the self. Read enough of them, and you cease to be only one person, you become, instead, a meeting place.

(Magical potions of fragrances from personal collection, Attar) During my childhood, a Muslim religious scholar who sang Padappat—the Islamic war songs cherished in Malabar, Kerala— visited our house in Sullia. Many of these songs were composed by Moin Kutty Vaidyar (1857–1892), one of the most celebrated poets in the Malabar Muslim literary tradition. Their themes moved through the lives and legends of important figures in Islam, carrying history, devotion, and melody togeth

Mayakudurai by Kutti Revathi (Translated to English by V.Umapathy) For a friend, the body is but a showpiece For a mother, it is perpetually holy, but for God, it is trash For a father, it is wealth - to be safeguarded and preserved When caught amongst the fish in the local water tank, my body was shredded Different parts were snatched and used as playthings on floating lotus leaves On those green leaves, they shone like little diamonds Grandma has then told that it is a smal

Daddy, I have had to kill you. Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you. I made a model of you, A man in black with a Meinkampf look And a love of the rack and the screw. And I said I do, I do. So daddy. I'm finally through. The black telephone's off at the root. The voices just can't worm through Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through. Sylvia Plath "Daddy" Who do you think you are? A Communion wafer? Blubbery Mary? I shall

The walk that led out through the apple trees – the narrow, crumbling path of brick embossed among the clumps of grass, the scattered leaves – has vanished now. Each spring the peonies come back, to drape their heavy bolls across the walk that led out through the apple trees, as if to show the way – until the breeze dismantles them, and petals drift and toss among the clumps of grass. The scattered leaves half fill a plaited basket left to freeze and thaw, and gradually darke

Sarkhej Roza, Ahamadabad An Ahmedabadi Setting – a meeting of biases While exploring the extended site of the majestic 15 th C Sarkhej Roza in Ahmedabad, we came across a man in his thirties looking out for some conversation. His dressing style was urban, and on further inquiry, he revealed a majoritarian uppercaste Hindu name. He spoke with some level of caution, even though we tried to be polite and friendly. He was talking to us based on a larger bias that the mainstream