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Welcome

An open book with a pair of glasses and some flowers

This space is for those who want to pause. As you can tell from the dated posts, I come and go as I please, letting years pile on in between.

Expect musings over reality and some works of fiction. I dabble in humour too, but make no promises.


  About Me  

Meghna Majumdar (she/her based in Kolkata, India)

I am a former journalist — features writer, restaurant reviewer, indie music announcer, urban biodiversity highlighter, lifestyle trends tracker and forecaster, and in essence a non-fiction storyteller of the (privileged, urban Indian) human condition. I found a lot of joy in that work, most of which can be found at this other link.

I'm currently working to assist some worthy individuals with the communications side of their climate research and environmental restoration efforts. Since that has nothing to do with my personal writing skills, I'll refrain from linking it here.

This blog, on the other hand, is entirely focused on fiction, sentimentality and the like. Here is where I hone my craft, so feel free to leave your feedback and advise (insert mandatory reminder about online civility here). 

Enjoy!

Most Read

The women I know

  Image by EYÜP BELEN on Pexels;  written by Meghna Majumdar
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The Table

Image by derich on Freepik ;  written by Meghna Majumdar Scratched. Stained. Crooked. If you put too much weight on it, it groans. If you stuff some newspaper under one leg, though, at least it stops rocking. It’s everyone’s favourite table. She sprinkles the day's first drops of gangajal on it. Three generations of feasts, fights and family meetings have earned it that right. She sits there, right after daybreak, remembering everyone who’s sat there before. She asks for all their blessings, remembers all their love. Her favourite table. They set the baby down on it sometimes, to crawl about, safely surrounded by adoring faces. One day, she crawled right up to her cooing mother, grabbed her nose and squealed, “Ma!” Her favourite table. He sits by it in the dead of most nights, away from the chatter and the questions. He moves the newspaper away, so it rocks quite nicely. He lays his head on it and lets it sway him, to and fro, to and fro. No nags about his meals, no scrutiny of car...
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