“At the stroke of the midnight hour... India will awake to life and freedom,” declared Jawaharlal Nehru the night before Independence. But along with joy, there was also the trauma of Partition... Children’s voices from all over the country capture different shades of that momentous time in India’s history. A hands-on way for young children to understand...
A collection of short stories focusing on communal harmony. Includes writers such as Zai Whitaker, Poile Sengupta, Githa Hariharan and Shama Futehally.
A little girl spills, drops, breaks, trips on things. She is called Clumsy, Slowcoach, Careless... words that scare away all other words. But in her head, words become stories and stories, pictures – and with a box of paints and a brush, she sweeps herself away from the names people call her! Vivid watercolours lift her from her everyday milieu into a...
A little girl spills, drops, breaks, trips on things. She is called Clumsy, Slowcoach, Careless... words that scare away all other words. But in her head, words become stories and stories, pictures – and with a box of paints and a brush, she sweeps herself away from the names people call her! Vivid watercolours lift her from her everyday milieu into a...
A little girl spills, drops, breaks, trips on things. She is called Clumsy, Slowcoach, Careless... words that scare away all other words. But in her head, words become stories and stories, pictures – and with a box of paints and a brush, she sweeps herself away from the names people call her! Vivid watercolours lift her from her everyday milieu into a...
A little girl spills, drops, breaks, trips on things. She is called Clumsy, Slowcoach, Careless... words that scare away all other words. But in her head, words become stories and stories, pictures – and with a box of paints and a brush, she sweeps herself away from the names people call her! Vivid watercolours lift her from her everyday milieu into a...
A little girl spills, drops, breaks, trips on things. She is called Clumsy, Slowcoach, Careless... words that scare away all other words. But in her head, words become stories and stories, pictures – and with a box of paints and a brush, she sweeps herself away from the names people call her! Vivid watercolours lift her from her everyday milieu into a...
A little girl spills, drops, breaks, trips on things. She is called Clumsy, Slowcoach, Careless... words that scare away all other words. But in her head, words become stories and stories, pictures – and with a box of paints and a brush, she sweeps herself away from the names people call her! Vivid watercolours lift her from her everyday milieu into a...
A little girl spills, drops, breaks, trips on things. She is called Clumsy, Slowcoach, Careless... words that scare away all other words. But in her head, words become stories and stories, pictures – and with a box of paints and a brush, she sweeps herself away from the names people call her! Vivid watercolours lift her from her everyday milieu into a...
A little girl spills, drops, breaks, trips on things. She is called Clumsy, Slowcoach, Careless... words that scare away all other words. But in her head, words become stories and stories, pictures – and with a box of paints and a brush, she sweeps herself away from the names people call her! Vivid watercolours lift her from her everyday milieu into a...
Renchu prods her grandmother for a story. But her Daadi’s stories are never told straight. She is “sometimes in the story and sometimes out of it”. And as she moves in an out, we see two worlds – one of a time when they were people of the forest, and one of now when they have been forced into cities as ragpickers. The illustrations too flit between the...
Renchu prods her grandmother for a story. But her Daadi’s stories are never told straight. She is “sometimes in the story and sometimes out of it”. And as she moves in an out, we see two worlds – one of a time when they were people of the forest, and one of now when they have been forced into cities as ragpickers. The illustrations too flit between the...
Renchu prods her grandmother for a story. But her Daadi’s stories are never told straight. She is “sometimes in the story and sometimes out of it”. And as she moves in an out, we see two worlds – one of a time when they were people of the forest, and one of now when they have been forced into cities as ragpickers. The illustrations too flit between the...
Renchu prods her grandmother for a story. But her Daadi’s stories are never told straight. She is “sometimes in the story and sometimes out of it”. And as she moves in an out, we see two worlds – one of a time when they were people of the forest, and one of now when they have been forced into cities as ragpickers. The illustrations too flit between the...
Renchu prods her grandmother for a story. But her Daadi’s stories are never told straight. She is “sometimes in the story and sometimes out of it”. And as she moves in an out, we see two worlds – one of a time when they were people of the forest, and one of now when they have been forced into cities as ragpickers. The illustrations too flit between the...
Renchu prods her grandmother for a story. But her Daadi’s stories are never told straight. She is “sometimes in the story and sometimes out of it”. And as she moves in an out, we see two worlds – one of a time when they were people of the forest, and one of now when they have been forced into cities as ragpickers. The illustrations too flit between the...
Renchu prods her grandmother for a story. But her Daadi’s stories are never told straight. She is “sometimes in the story and sometimes out of it”. And as she moves in an out, we see two worlds – one of a time when they were people of the forest, and one of now when they have been forced into cities as ragpickers. The illustrations too flit between the...
Renchu prods her grandmother for a story. But her Daadi’s stories are never told straight. She is “sometimes in the story and sometimes out of it”. And as she moves in an out, we see two worlds – one of a time when they were people of the forest, and one of now when they have been forced into cities as ragpickers. The illustrations too flit between the...
Renchu prods her grandmother for a story. But her Daadi’s stories are never told straight. She is “sometimes in the story and sometimes out of it”. And as she moves in an out, we see two worlds – one of a time when they were people of the forest, and one of now when they have been forced into cities as ragpickers. The illustrations too flit between the...
A boy who doesn’t stop talking, furry cats and clacking needles... Shobha has a dream every night, but she always wakes up before they end. How do these dreams end? She really has to know. “Write them down,” says English Miss. And that’s what Shobha does. “The more she wrote, the more she wrote, and the more she wrote. She wrote and wrote.” The interplay...
A boy who doesn’t stop talking, furry cats and clacking needles... Shobha has a dream every night, but she always wakes up before they end. How do these dreams end? She really has to know. “Write them down,” says English Miss. And that’s what Shobha does. “The more she wrote, the more she wrote, and the more she wrote. She wrote and wrote.” The interplay...
A boy who doesn’t stop talking, furry cats and clacking needles... Shobha has a dream every night, but she always wakes up before they end. How do these dreams end? She really has to know. “Write them down,” says English Miss. And that’s what Shobha does. “The more she wrote, the more she wrote, and the more she wrote. She wrote and wrote.” The interplay...
A boy who doesn’t stop talking, furry cats and clacking needles... Shobha has a dream every night, but she always wakes up before they end. How do these dreams end? She really has to know. “Write them down,” says English Miss. And that’s what Shobha does. “The more she wrote, the more she wrote, and the more she wrote. She wrote and wrote.” The interplay...
A boy who doesn’t stop talking, furry cats and clacking needles... Shobha has a dream every night, but she always wakes up before they end. How do these dreams end? She really has to know. “Write them down,” says English Miss. And that’s what Shobha does. “The more she wrote, the more she wrote, and the more she wrote. She wrote and wrote.” The interplay...
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