Archive for July, 2012


Let go. And welcome the madness back into your lives. For we, the odds are back to hit your gray cells with a splash of mad colour. Armchair rest over. Turn over to the wild. Take the dive to the sparkling new ODDITY 3. Youth written all over, this oddilicious issue drips with delectatble strangenesss – in art, reviews, poetry, shorts, conversations, tongue-in cheek interviews and oodles of oddness.

Come on. Shake up and take the Dive. This is to the spirit of thriving madness.

Be Odd. Very Odd.

Yours Oddly,
Sreemanti Sengupta
Odditor, The Odd Magazine

Drop that pretty bun you’re make in. Dig in to

P.S. – Rake up our sales. Buy yourself a copy of the past issues. Available in amazing paperback and ebooks. Links available at


Pizza’s in. Now let’s put down a Dickens.


Now, this thought struck me when a young writer asked me to give feedback on his writing.

(ahem, notice – I am qualified enough to give feedback now, and also that am not young anymore – makes me kinda queasy in the stomach)

Young man, am not humiliating you or anything. Am just taking the case forward in the next few lines.

I strongly believe, you can’t teach anyone to write. Or breathe. Or paint. Or feel queasy in the stomach.

It’s all very much like love. Real love, if there’s any. It doesn’t give you that golden sunset staged opportunity to say ‘Ido’ and go on to serenely kiss the bride. No dear no. The beautiful beach wedding falls apart, and there’s a fury of admiration. It’s very primal., beautiful, even dangerous.

Don’t get me wrong – am not saying Dickens can’t tell you a thing-or-two about writing. Or that you don’t need to lead a hippie life to write songs like Janis Joplin did. But yes, write, you have to do it from an unknown reserve inside. It’s a peculiarly violent self reliant and indulgent pleasure that cannot be shared like the muffins on the dinner table, can’t be bitched over in Saturday clubs, can’t be done anything.

It can be felt in the pain of the gut – at odd hours, while driving in the middle of the road, while cotton picking in a vast field. With no pen and paper around. And you got to huff-and-pant till you find something to let out. And sigh.

That’s what I think is writing. You got to replace that word with ‘living’.

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