They arrived in Tokyo carrying the smell of salt, sweat, and old paper. Some had crossed oceans. Some had crossed borders that no longer existed on maps. A few had crossed nothing more than the narrow circumference of their own fear. Yet when they stood together on the parade ground, boots aligned, shoulders squared, they…
Tag: Netaji
The Secret Voyage Aboard U-180
The sea does not announce itself when it decides to swallow the horizon. It simply closes in. Somewhere off the coast of Madagascar, the water lay dark and deceptive, its surface betraying nothing of the steel behemoth slicing through its depths. The submarine moved slowly, deliberately, like a thought one dares not complete too quickly….
The Radio That Roared
The radio arrived in the village like a rumour. No one could remember exactly who had brought it, only that one evening it was there, sitting on a wooden stool in the corner of the schoolteacher’s house, its dark casing catching the last light of day. It was not large, nor ornate. Its knobs were…
Three Disguises to Berlin
The night Calcutta learned how to hold its breath was not announced by thunder or proclamation. It arrived softly, wrapped in fog and the faint smell of coal smoke, as if the city itself had conspired to lower its voice. January of 1941 carried winter in its bones; the air bit gently at exposed skin,…
The Lost Letter To RSS
The monsoon had not yet slipped fully into the memory of summer; still, the scent of wet soil clung to every dusty lane, every narrow row of bricks, everywhere the city breathed in and out the musk of rain yet to come. Calcutta in 1939 was a city straining against itself, like an unfinished poem…
Weekend Stories by Trishikh 