Read Our Stories

The paradise of love, in its adorn bliss,

In its decor of grandeur, remains through the day.

These cherry tree flowers have bloomed, charmed and irresistible—

Their distinguishing dress so beautifully displayed.

The cherries adorn themselves in fitting attire,

Along with the gentle autumn breezes,

Which yield to winter's cold embrace.

There's no cadence 

in morning rush hours—

as anger burst like atomic bombs

and words splattered 

like spilt tea on a white sheet;

What of the child,
so pure and young,
the family's breadwinner, 
whose old mother, ever vigilant
listens for his return.

This cruel maniac has crept in our town,

Wreaking havoc from the corners of our street

To the utmost glorious sanatorium of our time;

Young leaves littered our street on borrowed time,

As they sniffed plume of sacrilege powdery mildew.

Who will be vigilant to console the Inconsolable?

As precious soul shimmers in this crazy hallucination—

Our homes have become a mournful dwelling sanctuary.

The evening air is quiet,
a silence that is warm, not empty.
I sit beside Papa,
the glow of the TV flickering across his face—
an old Bollywood movie, familiar, soft.
We do not talk much,
but we do not need to.
Some silences are not hollow;
they settle, like an old song—
comforting, known.

The winds had come, uprooting the trees, the ageing bamboo fences, and even the roofs of some houses. It signalled the end of winter, but the rain hadn’t arrived yet - the rain that would rejuvenate Sibo-Korong into a stream again. At times, the stream would eat into the fields on its periphery, moving humongous boulders from the mountains and rolling them so vigorously that they turned into small, smooth pebbles and scattered the rocks in its path. The stream originated in the lofty hills and ended its rocky trail at the mouth where it met the Siang - a name the locals of Pasighat know the Brahmaputra by.