"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
This novel is about a man who saw something quite unusual at an early age—he witnessed his father excrete red shit. That image didn’t pass; it fermented. 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.
Through diary entries that slip between past and present, he documents his life with unsettling candour—confessions of crimes and desires, flashes of humour, eruptions of rage, and a steady drift toward cruelty. He explains himself effortlessly, always convincingly, even when he shouldn’t. His yearning to achieve that shade of red shit once again lies unfulfilled, and that haunts him.
The result is a voice that is sharp, disturbing, and darkly funny—one that amuses as often as it repels. You will find yourself pulled between empathy and disgust, unable to settle on either.
Then come the roaches. All 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.
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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.
