Notes on the difficulty of writing.
Pragya did her Bachelors in Biology and her Masters in Dalit and Tribal Studies, but that was much later. She started writing at the age of seven and has since filled countless journals with honesty only paper can accept. Pragya has published her stories and essays on Nazar and Open Road Review. She is a fan of Bollywood, the violin, and cold milk.
There’s more than one type of sitting, of course…
03/01/2017 7:20 PM IST
The increasingly frequent blasts slicing the blanketed murmur of nature during this Diwali reminded me of what this festival
31/10/2016 1:56 PM IST
"These monkeys came from the plains," M says as we climb up the path to Naulikant, from where we will get our gadi, the one
02/10/2016 10:17 AM IST
Pest control was never my strong suit, but circumstances have led me to know more about fleas than I would have liked. They
20/09/2016 10:26 AM IST
I sweep, I mop, I rinse, I dry. I didn't always, relying not so long ago on others more willing, through love or money or selflessness or obligation, to do my dirty work for me, because I could afford to outsource it. Labour, when done as an act of responsibility, is never dirty. It is also never noble. It just is.
10/09/2016 11:39 AM IST
I don't know why I thought moving to a village in the hills of Uttarakhand would be easy. Maybe because I don't like people
03/09/2016 4:27 PM IST
Anger. Frustration. Fear. Shame. Disgust. Over and over again. This is what I felt as I watched this video. All 18 minutes and 58 seconds of it. Watch this video, and for starters, feel something.
13/07/2016 4:29 PM IST
Suffering, like everything else in the world, can now be boxed in a space I choose to enter when empathy is in vogue, to exit when the next episode of my favourite show is on, enter to sign a petition, exit to order in, enter to share a two-minute video, exit to avoid a two-page report.
11/07/2016 8:45 AM IST
Sunlight wedges through the edge of a closed curtain, drapes a slit of yellow on the corner of a white-linen bed, and tucks itself behind the adjoining table's crocheted cotton. It is a peaceful beauty, one I am unaccustomed to. Cushioning the fall of sound, cream-coloured carpet greets naked feet with a hush. It's a clean, pristine, dustless world. Welcome, to a bedroom in Washington.
27/06/2016 6:25 PM IST
Be warned. This is not me talking about knitting. Not really. Knitting is just the process I engage in. It's not what I do. What I do -- as the needles sing, clinking against each other, the matte metal zinging in a tiny bubble of yarn, as the knot slides out gently, magically, as the fuzz of the string lazes on my leg -- is exist. In that moment I exist. And I am at peace.
26/06/2016 12:15 AM IST
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