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debojit dutta

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Includes Dushyant Kumar's "Desh-prem":

Koi nahi deta saath,
sabhi log yuddh aur desh-prem ki baatein karte hain.
bade-bade naare lagate hain.
mujhse bola bhi nahi jaata.
jab log ghanto rashtra ke naam par aansoo bahate hai
meri aankh mein ek boondh paani nahi aata.
Aksar aisa hota ki matrubhumi par marne ke liye
bhashano se bhari sabhao
aur pradarshan ki bhaari bheedo mein
lagta hai ki main hi hun ek murkh…
mujhe hi sunai nai padta hai
jo sankat aate hi
samachar-patron mein dondi pitwakar
kahlaya jaata hai—

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I.S. Johar turned a paean to Mahatma Gandhi and other national heroes into a critique of the Indira Gandhi government

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Watch this rare Ismat Chughtai interview where she talks about her writing, feminism and more

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"Barnett draped one foot over my beard and propped the other on the tablets I was clutching." Stephen Baily views the world as it is.

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There is free play of what we call in the modern sense surrealism and fantasy in The Mahabharata. Today’s Marathi writer has absolutely no need to borrow such techniques as surrealism or fantasy from Western literature or from writers like Kafka. He can internalize such techniques from The Mahabharata. But Nemade doesn’t pay any attention to surrealism at all in all his essay and is contemptuous of fantasy. Which means that Nemade completely ignores such things which are, in fact, germane to the Indian tradition and the Indian imagination, and propagates, on the other hand, the western concept of Realism.

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Say Hello to the LGBT Sandwich, the Unsung Cousin of Burger King’s Proud Whopper via +Antiserious 

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Lesson: Constantly googling your love interest’s interests is the perfect way to show love. Failing to google is a symptom. A symptom of what?—that’s hardly important. #ShortStory  

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"Turmeric, coriander, methi.
Avinash’s hand was still stroking her forehead. Her nails dug into her palms as she tried to stop herself from swatting his hand away like a fly, a fly on a rotting ripe banana. Flies, yes, flies buzzing around her head.
Turmeric, coriander, methi.
Her mother in the kitchen…
Her father reading the newspaper…
Old Sushila chopping the fish…
Turmeric, dhoney, methi…
Holud, dhoney, methi…"

An excerpt from Sandip Roy's excellent book Don't Let Him Know.

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V Ramaswamy's translation of Subimal Misra's excellent story "An Evening in December '72" 

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What would semi-autobiographical novels written by flea collars, urinals and other inanimate objects contain? We have the excerpts!
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