Jaipur, Rajasthan, New Delhi, Kolkata, India
I have been writing since childhood, carrying with me both the weight of not fitting into conventional systems and the urge to create a world of my own through words. Though only an above-average student at school—often escaping classrooms that couldn’t contain me—I struggled with learning disabilities and the rigid structure of the Indian education system. Coming from a Scheduled Tribe background, I later entered some of the most prestigious colleges and universities in India, yet remained largely self-taught, learning instead through books, experiences, and the road.
I began traveling across India at an early age, earning my way while discovering landscapes, people, and stories. Eventually, I joined the police service after preparing for one of the most grueling examinations in the world. But my true love has always been books. Writers like Albert Camus, Joseph Heller, Carl Jung, and Karl Marx have shaped my imagination and my voice.
My poetry and prose draw on themes of travel, art, the unconscious, illusion, game theory, intelligence, geopolitics, magical realism, and satire. These influences converge in my debut novel, The Last Living Fort, which unravels the mystery of Mukul’s death while weaving together myth, memory, and reality.
to speak with faces in the dust of streets,
or to linger with voices
that haunt its own corridors.
Even in absence,
the dialogue does not die.
But absence grows into isolation,
and isolation hardens—
a crystal lodged
inside the unconscious,
glittering again years later
as a thought you swear was new.
---
Varun Arya
And then you ask—
How am I here?
When the silence echoes,
Why are you here?
Or perhaps…
you forget,
and forgetting becomes the answer.
---
Conflict burns,
yet from its ash
a strange sense of achievement rises.
What if the deep state within you
is not conspiracy,
but justice—
ancient, unshaken,
waiting to be remembered?
---
The end of ideology—
they said it had arrived.
But as long as men suffer
in their different languages of pain,
power will swing
like a pendulum of beliefs,
its weight born from hunger,
its rhythm set by time.
---.
The gods were furious with him,
the devils too.
Together they demanded,
Whose side are you on?
He gave no answer.
He only smiled—
idleness curled on the throne of rebellion,
untouched, unclaimed,
free.
---
Mind, being a social entity, relates with multiple identities and interacts with infinite persons, yet it's under a constant struggle to create a separate space for itself to grow and be identified as—at the same time—not be identified as any other person's mind.
---
Entrapped in mirrors of our own design,
We carved down hills 'neath lunar gleam,
Rivers reflecting in forests fine,
Where doe-eyed deers in musk scents dream.
Journeys begun to flee instilled fears,
Of love professed in timeless art,
Now in my image, through all these years,
You see a self—I question its heart.
---
For tresses fallen, ages lived in flight,
Memories adrift on time's vast sea,
Sounds echoing through eternal night,
Pages inscribed, frozen eternally.
Leather-bound legends, millennia hold,
Whispers of tales that ancients once told.
---
His hours spilled in tales of glitter's sheen,
A capsule bright off stargazers' eve,
Blind to the poet's gaze, the wonders unseen,
Trapped in Truman's scripted make-believe.
---
Etched upon echoes, your minds unfold,
Flowing like rivers through temporal streams,
Mythic journeys, in mysteries bold,
Travelers lost in forgotten dreams.
---
Immerse yourself in the world of creativity and appreciate the beauty of original works in the
Create by Mukul's Art Space
phone: +9197 182 77200/createmukul@gmail.com
