BIRDS DON’T SING IN MY CAVE -Aditya Maiti Every summer, I would journey to my grandmother's flat in South Kolkata, ‘my cave’ as I would call it. It’s cool, white expanse welcomed me, the calm walls and the wooden furnitures created an atmosphere of comfort. While caves would usually shelter a beast within, we felt like birds within its big expanse. Two clay horse statues guarded the entrance, next to which lied my grandmothers book cupboard. The flat had three large rooms. I would rarely enter my grandfather's room, but any time I did, I would sit by the window and gaze out at the jackfruit tree standing tall, with crusty branches and beautiful birds. The flat rested in a city of contrasts. From my grandmother's balcony, the flashy malls of Kolkata stood tall. Yet, right next it, a slum sat shy. Every individual living in their own caves, surviving their own battles yet content in their lives. The summer of my grandfather's passing was a season of change, our home, once...