I am Kritya. 
The intense word power,
which always moves along with the ultimate truth, which exists completely in accord with rightness.

Kritya is an international journal of poetry publishing contemporary Indian & world poetry Besides, it also features poetry in regional Indian languages in translation To keep continuity with our past, we publish the works of classical masters. Kritya is also a humble initiative from India to make use of the web and the internet as new platform of practicing and disseminating literature

) * All the legal application should be filed in Kerala, India, where the Kritya Trust is registered.

(ISSN 0976-514X)

Poetry Books
  Kritya publication

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The whole planet is the resource for all. ”Vasudeva Kudumbakkom” our ancient motto was in reality only a motto. As the whole earth converted in to a number of different lands or kingdom. man became enemy of man himself. This situation has changed rapidly.
Because of this greed, the shape of the boundaries started changing. Identities like language, religion are weapons used to control these boundaries. But in modern time people are again forced to come out from their thrown to unknown lands. Mohammad Habeeb , a writer and translator from Syria says --I have left behind a 54-year life-story, family, friends, and the Syrian people. It is like having two mothers: the first one is always the most wanted, even when the second is more loving and kindhearted. He also says - as 'I left [Syria], but half of my thought and feelings are still there.
Man has become accustomed to own land that leaving land is not so easy. But when they are not comfortable in their own land. They are forced to leave their homes. Though there could be economic reasons for migration, people are helpless in the country they emigrate to. The most atrocious kind of migration is due to war and religious conflict. Because of war and religious conflict, people have to leave their house/land against their own wish.
Rati Saxena

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Into the homes

Of men who go missing

There isn’t a single or a proper photo

Of them

To give for advertisement

When they go missing.
Nagraj Manjule
Meherin Roshanara

JNU hotel

You are a land that refuses
to be a nation,
but in your head is a country where all slogans are always heard.
You are a song that finds its own rhyme.
“Awaaz do”, my lips whisper.
” Hum ek hai”, your tongue draws me in.

We organize eat-ins at each other’s bodies.[1]
I try to educate your hips into a passable rhythm
while you agitate my skin into quick bondage.
Together, we organize chaos.

Together, we ride a gravity wave, broadcasting ourselves through the windows, shooting off into lands
where inquilaabic spurts are never taxed for sedition
Syam Sudhakar


Gandhi’s statue
posted a five-rupee cover
to Jesus’ statue:
‘If you have atoned
for all sins
by bearing the Cross
don’t wither in the sun
between two thieves.
Leave the churches
and come here;
my people will protect you.’.....
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(First published in Peril magazine: Asian-Australian Arts & Culture)

A broken glass bangle
laying on the street

asks more questions than it answers

An abandoned home

situated right in the middle of the neighborhood

asks more questions than it answers

A segregated neighborhood

that eludes the naked eye

asks more questions than it answers

Broken glass bangles, abandoned homes, segregated neighborhoods,

all legacies of Partition

Partition – asks more questions than it answers

Prerna Bakshi

When I was young
my older siblings
taught me to play hangman
But even in his death
I was creating him,
and here -
even before someone's birth
we kill him.
Lifeline's cut
even before they begin
forgetting how
the bottommost rung
is the base.

Brooks once said
the mother is also
the one who doesnt give birth,
overlooking something worse
than abortion-
giving birth and then
treating him a stepson
-a refugee in one' s own country-
reducing him
to a vote
to a number
a thing.
Essence precedes existence..

By Rukhaya MK.
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I think, and can’t stop thinking,
What, after all, is the reason
That a woman’s burnt corpse
And scattered human bones lie
At the threshold of every ancient civilization

And a dead prince
Becomes the son-in-law of the whole country –
Who legally
Is given the licence to barter away Sitas.
Sitas are tied to white beards
And in the scriptures,
Grasses get pregnant.

Some women
Of their own will
Drowned themselves in wells –
That’s lodged in the police records.
And some women
Burnt themselves in the funeral pyre –
That’s written in the scriptures.
I‘m a poet

One day I’ll summon
Both police and priest together
In the women’s court
And abolish all the courts in between…
Abolish also the claims
That the gentlemen
Have presented against the women and children.

…I’ll bring alive
Those women who drowned in wells and burnt on pyres
And once again record their testimonies
To make sure nothing is left out
Nothing is forgotten
Because I know of that woman
Who cramped her seven-span body
In her one-span yard all her life
.....Poet Vidrohi.

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I followed

No manuals of mukti

Never cared about

Penance and such.

Help! I hollered

From where I lay

God , get me out of

This hole.
Didnt bring holy water

For your bath, did I?

Meditation is all

The service I offered.

A lot of words

Flaked off Tuka.

With uncritical grace

You accepted them.

There’s no percentage

There’s no percentage

In being renowned

When our dialogue

Brings no dividends.

As far as i m concerned

God doesn’t exist

I m starving ; cut out

The dinner table jokes.

I garnished my tongue

With a lot of language

But was farthest
From any feeling.

An emigrant now , i m ‘a citizen of no land

I gave up sansara
Without gaining you.
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Chief Editor  

Rati Saxena

Chandramohan S

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