"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 poet writes, to be able to remember
that there lies an unfinished poem
on his desk, waiting to be completed,
as he sits on his pot, taking a shit;
a poet writes so that he can bear the
weight of food,
crashing against his oesophagus;
a poet writes to be able to
gather the strength, to walk down the
doctor’s corridor, for a prostrate exam;
a poet writes to be able to open a
jar of pickles;
a poet writes to be able to fuck;
a poet writes to be able to guide his glass
of whiskey, all the way to his mouth, and
gulp it all down knowing that
he would only be able to work better;
a poet writes to be able to make a pile
out of the empty lighters he is so
exhausted to refill;
a poet writes to be able to afford a
packet of ramen;
and his gastritis medications;
and his melatonin strips;
and his Vitamin B’s;
and his apples;
and his condoms;
and his electrolytes;
the rest is useless.
A poet writes so that he is able to
stand above the body of the
cockroach he had squashed under his feet,
knowing that he has the power to
immortalise death;
and to have the courage to get a
root canal treatment; and also, a
cyst removal;
a poet writes to be able to read;
and to be able to
sleep; and digest; and yawn; and
stretch; and sneeze; and
clip his toenails; and blink;
and piss; and meditate; but most
importantly, a poet writes,
to be able to relax his lungs.
And, my friend,
there is no one who can change that.
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.
