Thursday 17 November 2011

Like a litter of newborn mutant babies painfully slithering out from a womb, words surfaced: “Entropy… entropy… chaos… chaos… children… entropy… chaos…” Something about the inflection of the word “entropy” when it formed in his head after “children”, a subservient, almost worshipful tone.
Equal parts Ligotti, Lynch and his own special brainbrew weirdsplosh, my friend Suresh Subramaniam's deeply unsettling tale, 'Bharath's Toys' can now be read at Pratilipi.

The same issue contains my own story 'Empty Dreams'. 

Tuesday 1 November 2011


Henceforth, nobody who has written and  had published a novel (a) in the 60s and later that is (b) not a genre novel (crime, SF, fantasy, horror) should be permitted to share with the world a non-fictional essay or pronouncement on art, literature, politics, childlessness, childbirth, culture or clashes thereof, humanity, animals, insects, birds, reptiles, mammals, trees, flowers, fungi, fjords, airline ticket prices, aesthetics, atheism, religion, ravines, valleys, hills, mountains, poetry, prose, reality, fantasy, dream, memory or indeed anything at all whatsoever. It just makes them look stupid.

The genre writers can write what they like. No one will pay attention.