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"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
Adhish Gupta
Poet, literature enthusiast and an art fanatic.
Nadir
Books by Adhish Gupta
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
Nepenthe
Books by Adhish Gupta
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
What if the moon were a mortal?
Books by Adhish Gupta
‘If a poet falls in love with you,
you can never die,’
I read somewhere.
But what if he burns his art, O foolish stranger?
What if he burns his poems?
Isn't that the most painful
kind of death there is?
You get a small taste of immortality,
before you're stripped of it;
before you're forced into being a simple
mortal,
who'll never be
remembered by anyone,
all over again.
I see nothing worse th
The life and adventures of Mr. and Mrs. Bootyhole
Books by Adhish Gupta
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 brick
Cockroaches in my desk
Books by Adhish Gupta
“Cockroaches in my desk; an ode to father’s shit” is a book about a man’s obsessive and frightening descent into his obsession with shit. Our protagonist is one who saw something quite unusual at an early age: he witnessed his father excrete red shit. Now 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 be
Cockroaches in my desk
Books by Adhish Gupta
“Cockroaches in my desk; an ode to father’s shit” is a book about a man’s obsessive and frightening descent into his obsession with shit. Our protagonist is one who saw something quite unusual at an early age: he witnessed his father excrete red shit. Now 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 be
The life and adventures of Mr. and Mrs. Bootyhole
Books by Adhish Gupta
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 brick
Nadir
Books by Adhish Gupta
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
Nepenthe
Books by Adhish Gupta
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
What if the moon were a mortal?
Books by Adhish Gupta
‘If a poet falls in love with you,
you can never die,’
I read somewhere.
But what if he burns his art, O foolish stranger?
What if he burns his poems?
Isn't that the most painful
kind of death there is?
You get a small taste of immortality,
before you're stripped of it;
before you're forced into being a simple
mortal,
who'll never be
remembered by anyone,
all over again.
I see nothing worse th
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