Features
That a woman is raped every few minutes in the country is more than just a statistic for us crime reporters. It is our bread and butter.
Just like an alcoholic’s tragic relationship with his seedy madhushala, my lonely nights had come to be punctuated by sub-standard meals at Kolkata U.P. Chats and Paratha Center.
This decade has rendered us incapable of facing a gathering on a Sunday without a cocktail or three.
As a woman, you are never entirely independent and detached; everyone has a stake in keeping your freedom in check. And they will never let you forget that.
Seven households, one school, and one tiny gompa (monastery) make up Hipti, a small village in Ladakh.
Scissors snip menacingly, the naked razor blade wanders tantalisingly close to my ear, and cheap talcum powder is generously applied all over my neck.
It was no surprise, then, that I, like the rest of my generation, embraced the coffee culture with a vengeance. It was my way of telling tea to go to hell.
Ravi Chopra’s The Burning Train (1980), with its unpredictable twists and turns, entertains and educates.
Just one viewing of this old classic by B. R. Chopra shows us all that is wrong with Hindi television today.
Nascent pictographs created from the controlled symbiosis of needle and ink on nothing but bare skin hold a certain allure for this writer.
In a world where everyone with an Internet connection possesses the agency to self-publish, how do we deal with questions of quality?
It is not very incredulous to foresee a future where sentient mechanical beings will take over the mantle of evolution from human beings.
