"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
Mr. Bootyhole hung a photo frame over
the wall, and
came home to find it shattered.
He did not know whom or what to blame:
the weight of the body of the frame;
the tree it was cut from;
the mud the sapling was planted in;
the high definition of the picture;
the printer which took forth the job of printing it;
the glass embedded within;
the improper making of the bricks-
included, but not limited to the furnace
they were baked in, the manager, and the one who
gave them shape;
the frailty of the nail which held it in place;
the weak blows of the hammer;
its slippery grip;
the paint on the wall;
the humidity of the room;
global warming;
the lightbulb over the frame;
its filament;
the electricity wires running in the walls;
the wind that blew in through the window;
or his own incompetence.
All he knew was that he needed to
find a broom, before
his cat injured her paws.
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.
