FILM MAKER – AUTHOR – ARTIST
About Me
I am a multifaceted storyteller—a film director, art director, and production designer originally from India, now crafting my vision in the UK. My journey bridges the vibrant aesthetics of my heritage with the nuanced narratives of Western storytelling, creating a unique visual and emotional language in my work. I thrive on shaping immersive worlds that evoke visceral emotions, whether through the lens of cinema or the intricate layers of production design. Beyond film, I am a published author and poet, weaving words into vivid tapestries of imagination and introspection. My creative ethos revolves around exploring the beauty in the dark and the extraordinary in the mundane.I am drawn to narratives that delve into the shadows, embracing themes of loss, resilience, and the haunting allure of the dark genre. Passionate and relentless, I am driven by a desire to push boundaries, redefine genres, and leave an indelible mark on the art of storytelling. Welcome to my world—where every frame is poetry and every word is a scene.
Published Work
A malign dance of
ashes and wings (2021)
Andrea, the last of her bloodline, continues her quest for an unrevealed and enchanted hideaway, running from her unknown enemies while she encounters Samael, the dragonborn (or is he?) She is then introduced to a whole another world of wings and castles bigger than the sky itself, something she considered only a fairytale.
Dive into this malign dance and uncover the secrets of this new world, and the enigmatic lives of the characters. As there exists no dance without a song!
For this is only the beginning!
Published Work
A ballad of blades and
revenants (2022)
An extension to ‘A malign dance of ashes and wings’, this concluding book of the series ‘A drama of the doomed’, has all the answers. What happens of the enigmatic lives of the characters, the secrets of these unfamiliar cities and places so enchanting and dreamy yet also mysterious and sinister, and where pray tell shall this journey escort us to. There are answers, but not without tragedy. This engaging ballad of witches, wolves, viperborns, dragons and revenants consists of all the tones and the pitches; the highs and the lows. There is friendship, family, and of course the serpentine love and death!
For isn’t love the death of most of us?
BTS
Poems
a hollow vessel, bearing a name I do not recognize.
My mind splinters like glass, scattered across the floors of my broken home,
My heart, a trembling bird, claws for answers in the shadows.
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One day, I tell myself, I will find refuge
in the shape that haunts this flesh,
in the quiet pulse of this haunting stranger who shares my veins.
One day, I will rest in the knowing—
of the soul that lingers beneath this fog,
the unseen thread that binds my fractured being.
as if every shadowÂ
once belonged somewhere else,Â
as if I don’t belong anywhere at all.
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I ask myself within my dream,
Will waking be any different?Â
Will light erase this vague shape,Â
this tight, confining blur.
I wake, but the phantoms linger,Â
Outside, streets stretch cold, unfamiliar, .Â
I search them for something that might belong to me,Â
but the air is mute, peering.
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Only my childhood doll, soft and warm,Â
seems to remember me—Â
the only echo of a home I can’t remember,Â
Her fading eyes holding the last spark of warmthÂ
I shan’t touch again.
a slow ache rises—a quiet yearning
to sit, to fold into myself like the last light of day,
to shut my eyes and surrender to the dark, unafraid.
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My destruction wears the face of an old friend,
its voice soft as autumn’s final breath.
I feel it in my bones—the pull to rest,
to sink like stone into the sea boundless.
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The world unravels around me, brittle and grey,
And these hands tired, so tired
there is no fight left in my tired hands.
Like a fading star in the tragedy of night,
I am drawn to stillness, to the end that certainly waits,
where all things shatter, and I am one with dust,
Forevermore.
Your regret is an empty cup,Â
raised too late to quench a thirst already forgotten,Â
I am the shattered glass left on the floor,Â
and your remorse, like a gentle rain, falls uselessly on shards that will not soften.Â
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You look at me with eyes that ache,Â
as if guilt could reach down and cradle what you
your regret, a key rustedÂ
dangling in a lock that no longer turns.Â
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What’s now left of me is dust and memory,Â
and all the longing in the worldÂ
won’t bring life to what you let die.
