How a Magazine Questioned the Editorial Culture in Hindi Literature

We are living in fascinating times, as Dickens said: “the best of times” and “the worst of times.” The Hindi literary sphere reflects this paradox very clearly. On one hand, an unprecedented flood of content on digital platforms, blogs and social media is generating writing at lightning speed, unimaginable even a decade ago. On the other hand, this sheer volume often overwhelms a thoughtful engagement, making it harder for serious literary work to stand out. 

This proliferation has certainly diversified Hindi’s literary world. Earlier, a writer seeking a first break typically needed familiarity with editorial processes and access to the established literary circles. Print timelines moved submissions slowly and traditional magazines, due to their limited space, could not accommodate many deserving pieces. 

The internet altered this landscape. Web platforms accelerated communication, widened entry points for emerging writers, and shortened turnaround times. It is within this broader transformation that the Hindi web magazine Samalochan took shape. 

Launched by poet-editor Arun Dev in November 2010, it has been published continuously for fifteen years, which is rare for an independent Hindi literary venture. What sets Samalochan apart is not only its continuity but also the editorial culture it has cultivated. In a world where access historically intersected with region, caste, class and institutional affiliation, it offers a model that places greater weight on the merit of a submission than on the writer’s identity or connections.

The Hindi print world

Anyone familiar with Hindi publishing, especially for the postcolonial period, will recognise the entrenched structures that have long shaped the field. Hindi literary production clustered around a tight network of writers, critics, editors and publishers concentrated in major cities. Upper caste and upper-middle-class urban elites dominated these circuits. Their social location and institutional proximity influenced what counted as publishable or “serious” Hindi literature.

Small magazines and self-funded journals repeatedly challenged this hierarchy. With limited resources but strong conviction, they created alternative circuits for writers who struggled to enter mainstream publications. The late-20th-century revival of Hans under Rajendra Yadav became one such counter-space, more visible and more argumentative, explicitly committed to bringing the subaltern into the mainstream. 

These interventions did not dismantle old structures, but they did expand the field and bring new sensibilities into circulation.

The digital shift

The internet era carried this impulse forward in a different register. Web-based platforms loosened the grip of metropolitan print networks, allowing writers from diverse social and geographic backgrounds to reach readers more quickly. In this expanding environment, Samalochan emerged as a stable and thoughtfully curated digital space. Its steady rhythm, long continuity, and open submission process illustrate how digital publishing, when paired with serious editorial attention, can function as a democratic alternative to older print models.

Although Samalochan is not alone – platforms such as Jankipul.com, Sadaneera, Hindwi and others play an equally important role – its broad range, commitment to original and unpublished writing, and willingness to publish across literature, social science, pop culture, and the arts have given it a recognisable presence in the contemporary Hindi literary ecosystem. 

Taken together, these web platforms have contributed to a more interconnected and somewhat democratic Hindi literary sphere, one that is certainly more open and somewhat inclusive than the print-dominated landscape it inherited.

Breaking the fortress

For decades, scholars and critics have remarked on the relatively insular nature of Hindi literary circles. A small number of influential editors shaped what entered the public sphere, a pattern common across Indian-language publishing. Institutional affiliations, editorial preferences, informal mentorship chains and the writer’s social location often determined who appeared in print. 

Alongside that, the everyday gutbaaji (cliques), alliances and mutually reinforcing circles also influenced opportunities. These groupings were not always exclusionary by design, but they did concentrate visibility among those with metropolitan access and cultural capital. There were/are exceptions, but they remained exceptions to prove the rule. 

To understand this better, consider the example of a few general-interest magazines, such as Dharmayug, Sarika, and Dinman, which were prominent among urban middle-class households from the 1960s to the 1990s. Their editors were themselves significant cultural figures, and their decisions helped establish reputations, trends and literary canons of those times. 

For many aspiring writers, especially those from rural districts, small towns, or historically marginalised backgrounds, entering these pages required more than strong writing.

The arrival of the internet began to loosen this structure. Writers experimented with blogs and early social media to bypass traditional intermediaries. However, the shift brought its own complications, including an influx of unfiltered content, uneven quality and platforms that prioritised speed over editorial care. What remained missing was a digital space that balanced openness with thoughtful curation, a place that could, as the Hindi idiom puts it, separate gehun (wheat) from bhusa (chaff).

Platforms like Samalochan emerged within this context. Conceived as a suvicharit e-patrika, it approached digital publishing with the seriousness associated with print journals. From the start, it committed to original work and evaluated submissions on literary merit. The deliberate use of “editor”, not “moderator,” signaled that this was intended as a curated journal rather than another casual blog.

A broad canvas

What distinguishes Samalochan is its thematic breadth. Drawing inspiration from early 20th-century journals like Saraswati, which embraced translation and interdisciplinary inquiry, it engages with literature alongside art, history, philosophy, cinema, music and politics.

Over the past 15 years, the magazine has provided a platform for hundreds of poets, essayists, critics and translators. Some found early readership here; others, already established, used the space to reach new audiences. The journal’s inclusive approach, treating submissions from diverse regions, castes, religions and professional backgrounds with equal seriousness, has encouraged both emerging and established writers to contribute.

Over time, the magazine has published roughly 2,600 issues and received thousands of letters from readers. Its entire archive remains freely accessible, without advertisements or institutional funding. The magazine’s range is also evident in its translation portfolio, which includes works by Neruda, Akhmatova, Rilke, Paz, Whitman, Garcia Marquez, and Murakami, as well as long-form features such as Kumar Ambuj’s world cinema essays and interviews that probe literary and social questions. Anil Yadav’s recent 15,000-word conversation with Mahesh Misra is one example of this reflective, slow journalism.

Access to knowledge and the digital divide

Samalochan’s trajectory intersects with a larger question that shapes intellectual life in India: who has access to knowledge, and on what terms? Many influential English-language academic journals remain behind expensive paywalls, inaccessible to students and researchers without institutional affiliation. 

As public universities face shrinking budgets, young scholars increasingly rely on open-access platforms and, at times, informal “shadow” archives to access essential reading materials. Recent restrictions on such portals underscore how access continues to be mediated by class, language, and institutional proximity.

The English-language media landscape, often assumed to be more structured, can also be opaque. Submission guidelines are unclear, inquiry emails rarely receive replies, and writers without access to editorial networks face uncertainty. For many, the path from manuscript to publication is shaped as much by familiarity with professional circuits as by the quality of writing.

In this context, Samalochan offers a different model, freely accessible archives, and a clear submission process. Editorial decisions are based on the merit of the work rather than institutional affiliation or professional background. This model does not resolve the structural challenges of the digital divide, but it reduces some financial, logistical and informational barriers that determine who can publish and who can be read.

Arun Dev’s vision

While Samalochan depends on contributions from many writers, its day-to-day functioning rests largely on the editorial labour of Arun Dev. Working from Najeebabad in western Uttar Pradesh, far from traditional Hindi publishing centers, he has managed reading, editing and publishing for 15 years. The logistical constraints of a small-town environment, including irregular connectivity and limited institutional support, make this sustained effort notable within the landscape of independent cultural work. 

His literary background has informed the magazine’s direction, but Samalochan has never been a vehicle for his own writing.

Marking a decade-and-a-half of Samalochan invites a wider reflection. Across languages and regions, independent digital projects run by small teams or single editors continue to widen participation in literary and intellectual life. These efforts, modest in scale, collectively challenge older hierarchies of access and visibility. 

Samalochan is one instance of this phenomenon, suggesting that the Hindi public sphere can become more democratic and inclusive when supported by consistent and thoughtful editorial labour.

Ravinder Kumar is a PhD candidate in South Asian history at the University of Oregon.

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