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Holmes Never Left

  ✍️  By Subhasri Devaraj She didn’t believe in coincidences, which is exactly why she went alone. The Sherlock Holmes Museum had always seemed kitschy in pictures—pipes, deerstalkers, wax figures frozen mid-puzzle. But as Anika stepped inside, everything felt... off-script. The air was colder than London’s July deserved. Her emerald chiffon saree rustled as if it too sensed something unspoken. Near the fireplace, a magnifying glass lay on a velvet cloth—no display tag, no protective case. Just waiting. She picked it up. The museum remained quiet, too quiet. As she looked through the lens, the world tilted. The modern clutter dissolved. Warm gaslight replaced LEDs. The parquet floor shimmered like it had just been polished. And the sound—horse hooves on cobblestone, a steam whistle slicing through fog. She blinked. Still in the museum. But now the fire was crackling. And then she saw it: carved faintly into the stone above the mantle—her name. Anika. It wasn't graffiti. It was...
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The Mirror We Don't Want to See

  ✍️  By Subhasri Devaraj Image Created by Author You know that moment when you catch yourself doing the exact thing you just rolled your eyes at someone else for doing? Yeah, that moment. The one that makes you want to crawl under a rock and pretend it never happened. I had mine at Starbucks last Tuesday. There I was, standing behind this woman who was taking FOREVER to order. She's asking about every single drink modification, questioning the barista about oat milk versus almond milk, wanting to know if the caramel drizzle is "too sweet." I'm checking my watch, tapping my foot, thinking "Lady, it's coffee, not rocket science." My turn comes up. And what do I do? "Hi, um... what's the difference between your cold brew and iced coffee? And is the vanilla syrup sugar-free? Oh, and do you have any pastries that aren't too dry?" The universe has a sick sense of humor. We're All Walking Contradictions Here's the thing nobody talks a...
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She Didn’t Sit There to Relax

    ✍️  By Subhasri Devaraj Image cretaed BY Subhasri Devaraj (Author) The swing groaned softly under her weight—not in welcome, but in quiet protest. Kavitha didn’t sit because she wanted rest. She sat because there was nowhere else to go. The sunlight creeping across the marble tiles didn’t comfort her; it just reminded her the day had started without asking permission. The brass lamp still flickered from the early puja, but it didn’t feel sacred this morning. Just routine. She held a glass of tea she didn’t want—too strong, too sweet, just like yesterday’s. Her saree clung to her in the humidity, stiff with starch and obligation. Outside, life roared—a pressure cooker whistle, motorbikes in the street, a baby crying in the neighbor’s flat. But inside, Kavitha felt like a ghost moving through a museum of her own choices. She caught sight of the brass statue on the shelf—Lakshmi, maybe Saraswati. She couldn’t remember. They all looked the same now. She took a sip of her ...
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