Welcome to
The Rush Magazine

The trident lightning arrestor looks more constant than before— besieged by discomfort, bygone joys and pain—a belief flowing endlessly into the future.

In Kolkata, heat arrived as silence, thick, smothering. The days clung to us, draped like wet cloth, the evenings stitched with the hum of cicadas, their voices dense, layered, as if holding the weight of something breaking.

If you visit my mother’s village there is nothing much to see. There is a banyan older than my great-grandfather’s thoughts, a few houses older than a few cities, a temple older than my mother and boundless rice fields larger than the dreams of the farmers there.

I'm perched on a branch of my heart, like a question. Letters summon me— Why now, this flux of families And a city of the sun Beneath?

The woman I don’t recognize is back in my bed. She quotes Tolstoy.