by Samanwita Sen Is it insanityTo gaze at your own reflectionAnd be met – only –With growing vacancy? To trace the corporealityof your own handsYet feel as if your cells have dissipatedDissolved – Frayed – Scattered –Into the humdrum, the frenzy of absurdity? What happened?Your imprisoned gaze pines.What happenedTo the world where the colours swirledAnd […]
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by Samanwita Sen In the grand scheme of the universe, all we will ever amount to is just that. Stardust. You could have the highest statute of honour attached to your name, or you could be the stranger that meticulously walks down the same alleyway at the same time every morning – regardless, our existences, […]
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by Samanwita Sen One of the memories I look back upon fondly happens to be tucked away in the cozy little enclave of a bus seat, lit by the scintillating bobs that blurred outside as we drove past and the shadows of strangers bouncing off the window. I let myself fade into the lull of […]
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by Samanwita Sen
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by Samanwita Sen
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by Raghav Arora and Samanwita Sen Spring Awakening is a bold take on teenage sexuality. It follows the experiences of various adolescents,’ sexuality coming to full bloom, with a major focus on Wendla Bergmann as she forays into the unfamiliar territory of lustful passion in her relationship with Melchior Gabor. The play strikes a fine […]
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by Samanwita Sen Dear dreamer, It must have been a treacherous sail across the world. I can imagine it – how years before my formless thoughts could fathom the existence of time and a world beyond you and this beautiful thing called growing up, you must’ve arched your back, reaching for the specks of stardust […]
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by Samanwita Sen When walking away after watching a performance of My Mother Runs in Zig-Zags, perhaps the most lasting impression one is left with is how seamlessly and intricately the play has been put together. It’s no secret that, when watching the play, every note that is struck, every movement that is executed, and every […]
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by Samanwita Sen
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by Samanwita Sen You have always marvelled at the immaculate gloss of supermarket aisles, the shiny pages of magazine covers categorized into pristine, neat little sections which spring out to accost you with a lurid burst of colour; lurid, precisely to compensate for the depthless caricatures they celebrate; lurid, as if in contrived rebellion against […]
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The Poor Print 