"It was a wonderful experience interacting with you and appreciate the way you have planned and executed the whole publication process within the agreed timelines.”
Subrat SaurabhAuthor of Kuch Woh Pal
“Cockroaches in my desk; an ode to father’s shit” is a book about a man’s obsessive and frightening descent into his obsession with shit. Our protagonist is one who saw something quite unusual at an early age: he witnessed his father excrete red shit. Now years later, when this peculiar character stumbles upon his first job in the corporate industry, his obsessions and explosive nature guide his actions at every turn; and not for the better. From admissions of crimes to confessions of carnal desires, from his traumatic past to inflicting apathetic pain, and from enticing hobbies to psychopathic yearnings, this novel jumps from the past to the present, while our protagonist maintains this diary, reciting the various incidents that have occurred and are ongoing. His witty humour, unusual thought process, and the ability to always have an explanation in his favour drive him through the plot. The book contains the protagonist’s raw encounters, which can surely amuse but occasionally even disturb the reader. But in the end, he is a person you cannot love or hate; as you start leaning towards one side of this scale, the weights tip, leaving you in conflict all over again.
Another thing I must mention are the cockroaches. All of those who fall into the well of madness have one anchor that pulls them to the depths; these roaches are it. Their existence is not the question of the book; what they bring to the table is.
Adhish Gupta
As I walked down the cobbled street, I didn’t realise when muscle memory took charge, and I stopped before a dying hibiscus. The sanguine strands of each of the five asymmetric petals yearned to show through their unique individuality, how perfect their imperfections are; its pistil was still intact, and the pollen strands were still capable of producing an offspring- I chuckled: lifeless as it may be, I thought, it could still give life. I was running late
for a meeting, so I had to rush, but right before I left, I noticed that the step I was about to take, would have obstructed the path, which had been idealistically been appointed by the ants to reach their little hill, crushing seven of them in the process; naturally, I forced myself to turn to a
longer stride…
I hadn’t yet expected that muscle memory, from that day, would evolve to create art.
