Ananda Mukherjee was, by all accounts, a contented man. At forty-two, he was a respected physics professor at a reputable college in Kolkata. He loved teaching—the thrill of breaking down complex theories into sparks of wonder for his students never grew old. At home, his world was quieter but fuller: his wife, Sreya, an English teacher at a nearby school, and their nine-year-old son, Rohan, whose endless questions kept Ananda both exhausted and delighted in equal measure. Life was comfortable, routine. Morning classes, late afternoons filled with research papers and student queries, and evenings at home with family. And yet, there was one part of his life that broke the monotony, one friendship that rekindled his own boyish fascination with science—his bond with Anirban. Anirban was his colleague, his confidant, and in many ways, his second self. Unmarried, orphaned young, he lived alone in a crumbling two-storeyed house left behind…
Introduction This collection of short tales from the China-Burma-India Theater of World War II and Johnston Island is my embroidery on stories that my…
My name is Adithya. Everyone calls me Adi. I’m ten years old, and my sister Divya is thirteen, and she thinks she knows everything.…
The trunk of that great tree separated us from our husbands. They sailed on the canoe, and we could hear their laughter. The sun…
Most of the rest of the world doesn’t understand why we have a king. I’m not sure our population does either. It’s not as…
Rosin was a member of my writers’ group in Dublin—a woman in her forties, sturdy yet graceful, with auburn hair, a ready smile, and…
Fozia Khan lay on her Charpoy under the open sky. The night in the Tank district was still. From far away came the sound…
It was 11:55 p.m. when he stepped out of Moscow’s Lefortovo Metro Station. His whole body ached; his legs trembled. His eyes were sleepy.…
A sunny Friday morning in May. It is only nine o’clock, yet the heat is already oppressive. Kolkata, the City of Joy, simmers under…
Look, I’m not saying Ramu was a liar exactly. My mother would’ve called him “creative with the truth.” He sold fruit near the old…
