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Haoajan Webzine

Haoajan, a multilingual online magazine, serves as a global platform for literature, art, cinema, music, and related cultural activities worldwide. The Bengali word ‘Haoajan’ translates to ‘airborne’ in English, symbolizing the power and potential of words. Like airborne particles, words possess the ability to take flight, to sink profoundly into our minds, and ultimately, to craft something extraordinarily unique and beautiful.

While we are cognizant of the intricate jargons and terminologies of the literary world – such as postmodernism, intertextuality, and cross-cultural diversity – we choose to remain true to our conviction. Rather than getting entangled in this web of complex terms, we have outlined our vision and mission in two simple, yet compelling, mantras.

Imagination Unbound

Firstly, we encourage our readers to keep their imagination unbound. We believe that the power of imagination is limitless, and by exploring it without boundaries, we can unlock a world of uncharted creativity.

You Are Your Storyteller. Enchant Yourself.

Secondly, we desire for our readers to become their own storytellers, to weave their enchanting tales. We urge you to explore the depths of your imagination, to create narratives that echo your unique voice, and ultimately, to captivate yourself with your own stories.

In essence, Haoajan celebrates the power of words and the boundless human imagination. We strive to be more than just a magazine – we serve as a platform, a community, and a catalyst for cultural and artistic exploration across the globe.

HAOAJAN Team, 26th May, 2024.

The Walking Stick [A concrete Poem]

A soggy old man, groggy with sleep, heads towards his tumble- down cottage. His eyes looking around frantically for his lost calf; ‘ho! Ho! Ho!’  He bellows. Some vague impulses, some wayward fancies, some laughable absurdities, and recurrent revelries, whirl in the mind of this soggy, old shepherd. A twig between his chipped and discolored teeth, breathing in sporadic bursts, …

The Old woman Under the Banyan Tree

Under an ancient banyan tree, on a concrete square sits an old woman mending torn clothes. Every now and then, she stops, reflects, looks at the world passing by and goes back to her mending, oft tending to her gashes and scars,  not visible to the harried world. She inhales. She exhales, resolving not to fail, trying to make every …

The Woodpecker and the Chair

Somewhere deep in the wilderness, there is a chair, bruised, battered and abandoned. Not needing much, just a thick layer of paint, splashed with a soft healing touch. Around her the crazy world roars and clashes with malicious gaiety. But resiliently she stands, unfazed, having taken roots there. A woodpecker pecks the tree against which she leans. A jungle hare …

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan…

In this neighbourhood, buildings are trees. Across the fish market, sentries guard ‘Pine leaves’. ‘Rapunzel’ is not ready. Reddish-brown bushes hide its make-shift toilet, where masons move like shadows. Rich loam is infectious. I would like to grow too. Rise high With sacks and sacks of sand and cement …

Manicured

The noticeboard near the lift reads, ‘Those who ruminate, shall enter with memories of watching Saajan in 1991, churning adolescence, at their own risk.’ People run between tracks, as the train comes close. Someone cautions me, I step back. On the other side of the crossing, there are posters full of love. One, two, three, four rectangles of delight, gleaming …

Salt

Salt is white, like sadness – gleaming. Salt is nothing but sadness. One-third of the Earth’s waters are actually the tears of the world, from where salt is born. Since we eat salt, our blood is salty, tears salty, sweat salty, even the heart. The heart is the storehouse of sadness, a treasury of salt, that’s why the heart patient …

Ruby Gupta

Ruby Gupta’s underwear was still wet on the day of the Jallianwala Bagh massacre. While collecting the laundry, hung to dry on the terrace, Ruby Gupta had noticed – the other clothes were dry, just the underwear was still wet. She was terrified. Whenever her underwear doesn’t dry, something terrible happens somewhere. Sometimes I think of her – Ruby Gupta …

Good Man

I suffer whenever I meet a good man because his sadness is limitless. Whenever we meet, I hug a good man and try to ascertain how deep he will sink, how deep. I caress his back whipped by the dark wind. I stare at his two lips which will be muted by barbaric distrust, and I grip his hands filled …

From the Diary of an Old Man with Dementia

The paucity of words doesn’t hurt me anymore. I have spent a lot of time in my grammar classes and With some half-muted friends in our defunct WhatsApp group Or for something not worth mentioning here. I would rather describe this morning in a different way, In a different language without the usual vowels and consonants, In a new language …

Browse our publications

Forgive Reality

Crossing the Shoreline, a fresh collection of poems by one of our finest contemporary poets Gopal Lahiri reads like embarking on a new voyage to an unknown landscape where the …

Minutes of Merit

Sushant Thapa’s latest poetry collection ‘Minutes of Merit’ offers not only a close look into the daily life, but also his remarkably creative philosophical musings. This outpouring of youthful experimentation …