Amherst Square was suddenly alive with the ghosts of those who would most likely be strolling the flea markets, the stairwells, the tenement halls and soup kitchens this time today, had they, like Benjamin, turned a blind eye to invisible forces.


Once upon a time, in a faraway kingdom, there lived a brave and handsome prince. He was the first in line to the throne. He had fought for the glory of his kingdom in many long and hard battles. He had completely wiped out the barbaric hordes that opposed him.


He took the narrow bamboo bridge across the canal. He saw a man lying face down in the mud. Judging by his immobility one could easily tell that the man was dead. Last night the man lay there, choking in his own blood.


The first breathing dragon I need to evade is my sister-in-law.


“A Cosmopolitan, please.”

Who Comes Calling: Chapter 2

Time seemed to slow down for Goti in the moments immediately after Bablu parted ways with one third of his left hand. He saw everything in great detail, like watching one stylised long slow-mo shot of Matrix. He saw Bablu’s face frozen in mid expression, not quite out of his laughter, not quite into shock as blood sprayed out of his stump in stuttering spurts like water out of a damaged pipe.

Who Comes Calling: Chapter 1

Goti runs screaming from his house and dives headlong into the sea of coloured masses. Jets of cold water welcomes him, flooding his mouth with the metallic taste of the so called organic colours. He responds in kind, wielding his pichkari* like a spear. Within seconds, he looks like something a unicorn might have expelled after food poisoning.

The Exploits Of One Brave Soul Which Were, Of Course, Heroic

Once upon a time, Earth had filled up so much with people that there wasn’t any room left to breathe in or any air left for breathing. So everyone went off to a planet of their own choice – which would have been great, had there not been only a dozen or so planets to choose from.

Who Comes Calling: Prologue

Bantu, the fifteen year old help of Kesari Kaka, the local milkman, was a man on a mission. Bent over the handlebar, his legs moving at a furious pace like two steam driven pistons, his rickety cycle no less than a whirlwind, Bantu negotiated his way through the narrow, congested lanes of Bysack Para

Pin It on Pinterest

Share This