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IN TODAY'S PAPER
WEEKLY FEATURES
CITIES AND REGIONS
ARCHIVES
Since 1st March, 1999
 
THE TELEGRAPH
 
CIMA Gallary
 
Surfing gravestones
Last month, on a holiday in Paris, the family chose one day to segregate itself by gender. My wife and daughter went to the shops, while my son and I went in search of the tombs of our heroes. ...  | Read.. 
 
Letters to the Editor
On a different trip
Sir — Mamata Banerjee has announced the Andolan Express, to run between Singur and Howrah from Augu ...  | Read.. 
 
Friend or foe?
Sir — The Congress has managed to form the governing board in the Uluberia municipality, allegedly ...  | Read.. 
 
Report card
Sir — Sections of the electronic media criticize government functionaries out of habit. The same ha ...  | Read.. 
 
EDITORIAL
JUST A LITTLE CHAT
Four men sit drinking beer under a magnolia tree in the rose garden of a very important house in the United States of America...| Read.. 
 
REVIEW ARTS
Promising start
After 27 years of mothering its highly successful, entertaining and motivational Inter-School Drama Festival (except on a couple of occasions in the immediate past ...  | Read.. 
 
Monsoon melodies without their majesty
Mian ki Malhar is marked as a raga for great artists. I have heard Pandit Ravi Shankar failing to play it satisfactorily and therefore, I suppose, Vijay Koparkar ofl...  | Read.. 
 
The joy of nimble footwork
Pandit Durga Lal Memorial Cultural Society organized a dance festival at Kalamandir on July 10. Bharatnatyam, Odissi and Kathak, the three distinctive styles of Indian ...  | Read.. 
 
Banal image
Sanjoy Banerjee obviously took the title of his exhibition, In the Midst of Valleys (Academy of Fine Arts, July 11-17), very seriously. Almost all his paintings at the ....  | Read.. 
 
THIS ABOVE ALL
Time to set the record straight
I was appalled to read the language used by Rita Bahuguna Joshi, the head of the Congress in Uttar Pradesh, while speaking ab...  | Read.. 
 
SCRIPSI
The autumn always gets me badly, as it breaks into colours. I want to go South, where there is no autumn, where the cold doesn’t crouch over one like a snow-leopard waiting to pounce. The heart of the North is dead, and the fingers of cold are corpse fingers. — D.H. LAWRENCE