By Asmita Bhattacharya Many of us today may not be staunch believers in God. But how many of us can truly, confidently deny the fear of ghosts? As a child, pre-teen, and well into my teen years, I was a scared atheist. I didn’t know any chants or all the lines of any prayer to … Continue reading Yet Another Convent Haunting
To Believe or Not to Believe: Bengali Childhoods and Indigenous Horror Fiction
By Dr. Stella Chitralekha Biswas Born in a quintessentially Bengali household, I grew up listening to a fascinating plethora of bhooter galpa that catered to my ever-increasing appetite for the same. In fact, having doting grandmothers and other female kin within the household meant endless evenings and nights of storytelling that sent shivers down our … Continue reading To Believe or Not to Believe: Bengali Childhoods and Indigenous Horror Fiction
The End
by Maryam Sikander Studying in a convent school means you grow up with stories of dead nuns haunting cemeteries and unrequited love stories of star-crossed lovers who die for love and old statues of Angels and Apostles who walk around in the dead of the night in empty school premises and so on. I wrote … Continue reading The End
A Tale of Murkatta, the Headless Monster
By Saundarya It is often the fear of the unknown that lies at the core of a horror story. The element of horror is mostly used in order to keep the dust under the rug. This maintenance of the status quo may look like a piece of cake but believe me, it does not taste … Continue reading A Tale of Murkatta, the Headless Monster
Didur Jhuli
By Madhuwanti Mitro Hau mau khau, manusher gondho pau Growl growl growl, I smell humans Sort of loses the charm when I translate it to English… Growing up in a Bengali household, this high-pitched nasal catchphrase was a source of both giggle and terror. My grandmother used to sing this aloud when she was in … Continue reading Didur Jhuli
Paanimura
This must be the first time I am documenting this, and honestly, I have no explanations. When it happened, I was too young to understand or remember much and when I could finally perhaps look more into it, I had forgotten most of the details and nobody really knew the whole story. So, I will … Continue reading Paanimura
Conflicted Childhoods in R.K. Narayan’s Swami and Friends
“I am beginning to feel of late that I have Delirium” (Narayan 167) When it comes to the narratives centred around a juvenile consciousness evolving during colonial India, there are only a few and fewer amongst those who have done justice to it. Children, irrespective of the temporal and spatial bounds have been treated as … Continue reading Conflicted Childhoods in R.K. Narayan’s Swami and Friends
The Moonlit Door
Once I remember,I had been to a place,Where everything,Seemed strange and still.A big house stood front of me,Where the door was dusty and ancient,The Moon which has flashed its light,Has fallen on the door. I realised it is a Moonlit door,Where the light expanded and covered,I smote on the door,Which rippled the light.I could see … Continue reading The Moonlit Door
Why I feel marginalised as a children’s writer and publishing professional
Meghaa Gupta In 2021, I had the privilege of being shortlisted for an award celebrating women writers. Much has been said about the historical neglect of women in virtually every walk of life, including writing. However, as a woman working in children’s publishing, I can hardly recall a time when I felt discriminated because of … Continue reading Why I feel marginalised as a children’s writer and publishing professional
Faces
I meet them in the bazaars, in the house of the store keeper, in the walls of the attic, in my history book, from my balcony, while going to school, at father’s new office, in the newspapers, in the temple fairs, in the looking glass, in letters and in the library. They are neighbourly like the trees of the square grounds that obstruct sun rays inclining them to the veranda of Mrs Bakhsh’s flat --- so that our clothesline misses the sunny wink and mother gets invective in early morning housekeeping. They can talk, laugh, sing, frown, gossip, sneer and think; I know some nine billion eight hundred fifty four of them, tomorrow there would be more, so I keep counting. I like to read them when in a hurry, they run like the frogs ---- ‘splotching’ on the rainy floors when Kalbaisakhi and wet showers hit office hours. They are concessions to recognition --- in this 'amnesian' world, where we keep looking for the specs, forgetting its use as a hair band atop the skull and that it keeps hairs in place better than wandering eyeballs. They are ill at ease with personalities, ears, nose, eyes, lips – they stick like cheese, though similar in the whole, their individuality is not amiss. Call them faces, if you please.