When the call came, I was thinking about death. Specifically by jumping. Leaping, is how I looked at it, from the top of the 13-storied Block D of Abad Ravines. I had surveyed many projects in the city under the pretext of a purchase. This one was perfect because of the surprisingly lax security –…
A short piece into a writer’s soul as he grieves the death of love in the hunt for art and originality.
The Moon is an Oatmeal Raisin Cookie
Saahil first got seriously on social media because he had heard that Anjali was on it. Anjali was this pretty girl that he knew at work. The kind of girl that he almost never found the courage to talk to. But he wanted to talk to her.
Right Ho, Jeevika
It was a fine day, the kind that could bring in even the most bumbling of the male gender, a song in their rhythm-less hearts. So you can only imagine its effect on someone blessed with the energy of feminine creation, for what indeed is greater originality than that of creation of another human being….
This itch I swear. It shall be the death of me. I fear sometimes, that it will come with me to the grave. I shall be all of six feet under, my family weeping their goodbyes. And right then, when the angels of death, truly terrifying creatures that we know that they are, their eyes…
My Artsy Dreams
“You think that you change clay. But I think clay changes you” Nowadays, this is the kind of sentence that I repeat a few times a day like it is a medical prescription. This is because I have suddenly become an artist. It happened over the weekend. When I walked by chance into a curious…
Why that Bimbo Smart
Bimbo is someone I have often seen at many work places. Of course, she’s Indian, probably Punjabi, I dunno, long black locks of hair, luscious lips, and white skin, the works. The kind of girl who is pretty because she firmly believes it and takes enough selfies to prove it. Obviously, she’s no friend of…