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The Memory Box
Poetry Yarang Radhe Poetry Yarang Radhe

The Memory Box

When we were little, my sister and I 

had a small, cardboard box

filled with stickers. 

Treasure chest, we would call it.

Of glittering stars and tiny flowers,

cartoon faces grinning up at us.

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In the Name of God
Creative Non-Fiction Bendangtila Aier Creative Non-Fiction Bendangtila Aier

In the Name of God

Nestled within the embrace of ancient mountains, their peaks adorned with clouds and where thick forests weave a tapestry of green lies my hometown like a wildflower, the home of the Aos - one of the tribes amongst the Nagas. Here, the air is thin, life is monotonous, time is slow and the mountains bring a sense of peace. In this Naga Hill at India’s periphery, the memory of our headhunting past lurks in every corner and because of this, I am a curiosity, an ethnic specimen for those beyond the borders of North-East.

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The Roads We Cannot Take
Creative Non-Fiction Pauline Awungshi Creative Non-Fiction Pauline Awungshi

The Roads We Cannot Take

What does it mean to travel? Is it as simple as going from point A to point B? For some, it’s just movement - a mundane act, a means to an end. But for others, it is a quiet, relentless struggle. A reminder that displacement is not always about exile; sometimes, it’s about the invisible lines that turn familiar paths into battlegrounds.

For the Kuki-Zo people of Manipur, movement itself has become an act of survival. Since the escalation of ethnic clashes between the Meitei and Kuki communities in May of 2023, the Imphal airport has remained inhospitable ground for the Kuki Zo population. This is not a legal order or a political mandate, but it is common knowledge for all of us from the community. For us, the Imphal airport is a risk. 

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At A Dinner Table Conversation With My Father
Creative Non-Fiction Sara Haque Creative Non-Fiction Sara Haque

At A Dinner Table Conversation With My Father

At a dinner table conversation with my father, he tells me how he’s recently started feeding a lot of birds back home. Half listening to him go on about how the Hadeeth mentions that birds can earn you a lot of grace, bless their helpless little hearts, I think of how poetic it is that his love for animals finds religious sanction so he can now serve them joyfully, without it being a necessity of his profession (he's a vet), or an attack on his masculinity.

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