“…a new phase filled with hope and optimism” is what Sarah says about the new year somewhere in this issue. True enough, for most of us, a new year signals fresh chances and the opportunity to make new things possible!

The first and perhaps only thing that one recollects on a mention of ‘Rwanda’ is the genocide of 1994 which left over a million people dead and over 4 million displaced, orphaned, widowed or traumatized. I remember reading about Rwanda and not even knowing where it was, or to be honest, that there was a country by that name.

Anjali stood silently in the verandah. Her hands clutched the cast iron grill at the height of her ears. She stared at the unseasonal rain that the skies of Bengal were pouring down on this October day. A veneer had formed in the foreground due to the thick streams coming down from the edge of the cornice.

Loneliness procures her soul in the everyday game of dawn and dusk. On a rainy evening, she dreads the feeling of being alone amidst moving crowds. So today, when she can see the horizon swelling up with mist, she knows she will have nobody for company, but her blue umbrella.

Until the afternoon of his sudden demise, Mr. Chitti went through life largely unnoticed. He was so self-effacing that he was entirely ignored by his co-workers in the office of the Controller of Audits for Secondary Education (CASE), a minor wing of the state government that not many people even knew existed.

My mother always said that if you met a strange person, you would encounter that person three times in your life.  The same if you went to a strange town; you’d end up there three times.  But I’ve only met the woman twice.  I’d like to meet her once more, to tell her about Chandu and to show her Akash.

I was trying to run as fast as I could but my poor legs were betraying me. Fear snapped at my heels and I was confused about which direction to take. I dropped my shoe and ran on, barefoot. It was absurd anyway, to run in only one old leather shoe!

It feels all the more lonely when you come away from a group. The idea of creation, of immersion, of looking at something you have created makes you feel life is worthwhile. Men realise the satisfaction the act of creating gives a woman – she has nurtured the child long enough to know what its importance to her happiness (or impossibly, the deep depression following creation) is.

As the daughter of a diplomat, Samhita Arni spent her childhood in Italy, Indonesia, Pakistan and Thailand, besides India. During this time her constant companions were books, particularly ones relating to mythology, Indian and otherwise.

Jade coloured moss covered the stones surrounding the water, giving the appearance of an antique mirror to the well. Tiny waves of a ripple embraced the edges and fell silent. Unnimaya gazed at herself.

It was the summer of 2003. On a Sunday morning, the Times of India carried an article announcing the opening of a children’s experience centre called Hippocampus in Koramangala, Bangalore. Curious families walked in to see what a children’s experience centre was.

It’s been a while, I know. Ever since we finished school and moved away to different parts of Megha Kash, we haven’t really been keeping in touch like we promised each other we would. But that’s okay, I guess life can and does get too busy for the little things sometimes.

Perched atop the mango tree, he could see Acchan’s outstretched hands. From that height, it was impossible to tell whether Acchan was sober or whether he had already paid a visit to the arrack store.

Climate Change means a long term change in the weather pattern lasting several decades to even millions of years. Global warming is a type of climate change in which the average temperature of the earth’s atmosphere and its oceans increases over the long term.

December 26th. The hoopla of Christmas over and done with, what a relief! Now I had a six day hiatus, to shed the detritus of the past year and prepare for the New Year. Finally on New Year’s Eve I would cross over to a new space, a new phase filled with hope and optimism.

Fortunately there were no fires during the months I visited California around San Francisco and Senoma County. The couple I visited live in a beautiful little town called Windsor, just outside Santa Rosa, famous as the town where Charles Schultz the cartoonist lived and died...

Perhaps it always stood here. At least that’s what we all believed.  For we had grown up seeing it. And because no one told us, we took its existence for granted. Much like youngsters in the city take everything else for granted.