Some stories belong to specific nights and sacred days. These are the stories of Janmashtami — the night a prison cell filled with light. Of Rath Yatra — the day a king becomes a servant and pulls his Lord’s chariot through the streets. Published ahead of each festival so you arrive at the celebration already carrying something meaningful inside you.
Reading Time: 3 minutesThe clay pot had hung between the two balconies since morning, tied with jute rope, swaying whenever the wind picked up. By afternoon, every child in the society had gathered below it, chalk circles marked on the hot tar to show where each layer of the pyramid would stand. “Six
Reading Time: 3 minutesDiya arrived at Bhoomi’s house holding a tiny wooden swing, freshly painted, still smelling faintly of turmeric-yellow paint. “For tonight,” she said, holding it up proudly. “Baby Krishna needs somewhere to sleep once he arrives, no?” “He arrives at midnight, Diya. Not for a nap.” Bhoomi hung the little swing
Reading Time: 3 minutesIn the Mughal camp at Cuttack, a soldier named Lalbeg lay wounded on the battlefield, his son beside him. The boy’s name was Salabega, and he was seventeen, and he had already seen more of war than any boy should. His mother had been a Hindu Brahmin before the years
Reading Time: 2 minutesThe sun was hot. The road was hot. Even Bhoomi’s chappals felt hot. But the street was full of colour. Big wooden chariots stood waiting. Marigolds hung in long orange strings. Drums went dhum-dhum-dhum somewhere close by. Bhoomi had a secret in her pocket — a small paper boat, folded
Reading Time: 2 minutesAnanya was not allowed to sleep tonight. This was the rule, and she had been reminding everyone of it since morning. “Even if I fall asleep on the floor,” she told her grandmother, “wake me up. Promise.” “We will wake you,” her grandmother said, smiling, hanging a small string of
Reading Time: 2 minutesStop eyeing those biscuits, beta. Not today. Today we wait. You’re making that face again, the one you make when you think I’m being unfair. Sit, I’ll tell you why. When I was your age, my own grandmother used to fast the whole day on Janmashtami — no rice, no
Reading Time: 3 minutesThe prison cell had no window. Vasudeva knew this because he had counted the stones in the wall so many times he could close his eyes and see every one. One hundred and forty-three stones. He had memorised each crack, each dark stain, each place where the mortar had crumbled
