The Ledger of Echoes By Lokanath Mishra Clara Vance had a life defined by quiet perfection. Her husband, Julian, was a steady, devoted architect who loved her deeply, and their young daughter, Lily, filled their bright suburban home with warmth. Yet, Clara felt suffocated by the predictability of it all. Enter Marcus—a charismatic landscape designer […]
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The Last Handful of Rice By Lokanath Mishra The winter evening had descended quietly over the small village named Girala. A cold wind slipped through the cracks of the old mud houses. In one such house, Ananya, a newly married woman, was preparing dinner. The pot on the stove contained barely enough rice for her
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THE SECOND MONSOON By Lokanath Mishra In a quiet apartment near Rabindra Sarobar, mornings began with routine rather than joy. Madhumita moved through life like someone honoring a promise she never made. Since Anirban’s death, her existence had narrowed into responsibilities—raising Ritwik, maintaining dignity, and preserving memory. Anirban’s photograph hung in the living room. Fresh
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The Weight of Her Own Name By Lokanath Mishra The evening sky over Jatani burned in a dull orange, as if the day itself resisted ending. Near the railway tracks, in a fading government quarter stained by years of monsoon and dust, Meera sat by the window. Her two-year-old daughter, Chhavi, slept beside her, her
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The Silence Inside Her Home By Lokanath Mishra In the peaceful residential lane of Shantivan Colony, the house of Raghav Sharma and Meera Sharma looked like the picture of success. Two floors. A small garden. A white car parked neatly every morning. Neighbors often said,“Look at them. Both lawyers, two daughters well-settled abroad. Perfect family.”
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The Song She Never Forgot By Lokanath Mishra The year was 1994, and Shadashiv Sanskrit University stood like an aging guardian—its walls worn, its corridors echoing with decades of discipline and silence. There were no loud voices here, no careless laughter in classrooms. Learning was treated almost like prayer. Miss Radhamani Mohapatra had been teaching
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The Weight of a Chalk-Stained Hand By Lokanath Mishra When Aarav Sen turned twenty-four, he thought he already knew the shape of his life. He lived in a rented flat near the university where he worked as a junior research assistant, surviving on stipends, instant coffee, and the fragile pride of being “promising.” His days
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What We Leave Behind By Lokanath Mishra The Story Rohit told the first story as if it were something he wanted to wash out of his mouth. “I was on a flight,” he said quietly. “I needed to use the lavatory. Someone was inside, so I waited.” When the door finally opened, a young Bengali
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When the Night Speaks By Lokanath Mishra The night was unnaturally still, the kind of silence that presses against the ears until even one’s own breathing sounds intrusive. At exactly two in the morning, Kajal heard her name whispered from the darkness. “Girl… get me some water.” She opened her eyes, more irritated than afraid.
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The Shape of What We Learn to Hold By Lokanath Mishra Raman Verma was thirty-eight when he stopped pretending that solitude was punishment. It had once felt like exile—rooms too quiet, nights too long—but now it felt like a consequence he could finally live inside without breaking things. He had been married three times. Each
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