‘Madhubala; Insidious Incense’ is my inquiry into novellas. It is a framework engine that situates singularly written pieces of verse into a collective act of world building. These pieces even though crafted in vacuum, serendipitously allude themselves to a dramaturgical collective. ‘Madhubala; Insidious Incense’ is to be treated like an independent work of literary art. The verses and their narrative sequence are to be treated as a manuscript in the making.

I have a muse whom I call ‘Madhubala’. I have spent my time crafting poetry; understanding myself as a poet through her Self and its reciprocity with my own existence. I allow my creative praxis, its relationship with an ensemble and collective to be defined by my equation and escapades with my singular muse. My encounters with her are critical fabulations that define my lived and to be lived realities.

The Novella is set in a singular space. It is a raunchy, and lewd motel; a surrealist hotel. It imbibes a heightened suggestibility. The verses are dream like sequences set within the aforementioned scenescape acting as surreal snippets that I have engaged with, manoeuvred, negotiated and existed within in real time. It is an engine that posits the reader into the ‘Other’, a world, with characters, my Self and an elusive She.

The verses and the way they stitch themselves together within my Novella and its ontology is a working project that I would wish to work on as I involve in establishing and perpetrating ensembles for the sake of generating contemporary and devised pieces of performative art.

Writing of ‘Madhubala’, is a self-indulgence of mine. When I do write I commandeer a lot of suppositions and my recklessness seems almost manageable. I present the flies that are stuck in the ointment. Nothing about it is ever nice. It is a humane sophistry. At times the words present a state of mind that is plausibly psychotic yet clean. Whilst writing I wish to brandish a bespoke yet universal status quo. I do not aspire to be genially palatable. As a matter of fact, my version of whoring around would be to write airport novels, that are sold next to velvet neck pillows, and nicotine in paper cups. I suppose dry popping orifices in a pressurised metal tube, thirty thousand feet above sea level is an existential bane of humanity and my status quo is to imbibe and posit the wretched of the earth that I am, my tar, within the serenity of my muse.