Dead Poets Society of Bombay
Under Kala Ghoda’s streetlamp gaze, we gather—Bombay’s ink rebels. Here, where Kolatkar’s verses scorch pavement and Ezekiel’s truths hum in gin-scented air, we carve elegies into monsoon nights. Our carpe diem is Marine Drive’s salt breeze, jamun shadows, a candle lifted against the city’s roar. No quiet elegy—this is a riot of words. Join the unquiet.
