"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
A little black woodpecker had its
beak stuck in the hollow bark of a tree.
It fluttered and twitched, hoping for release,
all to no avail. Eventually, it gave up,
knowing that its demise was certain,
and after I saw its submission, I went out and climbed the
tree and gently pulled it free.
But what happened in the process, was that a part of its
beak chipped and remained stuck in the wood.
The bird, in fear, spasmed and died in my hands; And then,
all I could do was weep.
Weep and weep and weep,
for I was now the murderer of something that death had already
consumed.
I was no one’s saviour. No one’s.
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.
