roshan abraham

If Superhero Movies were made in India

There’s something about the superheroes and the idea behind their relationship with humans, whether it’s a metaphor for the better part of us, or the more flawed part of ourselves.

Before Bollywood starts adapting the Superhero culture and starts making movies on it, we have picked a few and tried our bit on If Superheroes were made in India.


1.       SpiderMan: Tiger Shroff

The Boy next door turned Superhero is what Tiger Shroff can be best at


2.       Superman: Siddharth Malhotra

Imagine Siddharth Malhotra  in formals and specs, trying to struggle through his mundane life


3.       Batman: Hrithik Roshan

The Jaw line, the voice and the personality. Looks like our Greek God fits into the correct description of The Dark Knight


4.       Green lantern: Akshay Kumar

Bollywood Khiladi can be the perfect replacement of Ryan Reynolds, What say?


5.       Wolverine: Sanjay Dutt

The Bollywood Baddie Sanju Baba is the only Actor who can do justice to Hugh Jackman’s performance


6.       Captain America: Vidyut Jamwal

We have seen him in Force and Commando. No doubt he can pull it off, smoothly (with attitude)


7.       Thor: John Abraham

Give him his Mjolnir (hammer) and you will understand what we are talking about. “You have my word!”


8.       Hulk: Salman Khan

Need we say more? Isn’t it obvious why Bhai is the only one who can do justice to the Angry Hulk?


9.       Iron Man: Shah Rukh Khan

Looks- Check

Personality- Check

Attitude- Double Check 


10.       Loki: Arjun Rampal

Remember Ra.One? Is it just us or even you think he can play a kickass role as Loki?


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hero party

eventually, aladdin forgets the lamp in the bottom of the cave. he stumbles out to get his lighter and light his cigarette, and as he wafts the smoke around and takes quick note of a lingering headache which he fears is the onset of a migraine, the cave door closes behind him. He turns around and pulls his fists tight and tries to open the door of the cave. He bangs on the cave door until his fists hurt. He begins to panic, gets frustrated, slumps down against the cave door and wishes this was just a dream. Somewhere at the bottom of the cave a pink gas diffuses from the lamp and a smell like perfume, jasmine, orchid, and semen spreads out and stains the cave walls. At the end of his journey from the underworld, Orpheus turns his own weeping head into a bowling ball and throws it perpetually into the gutter in order to make Eurydice laugh. Eurydice watches from her home laptop in her pajamas but does not laugh. She clicks over to pornography in another tab.  Spiderman is not really spiderman; he is a Doctor, he lives with his elderly aunt who has dementia. He takes the train to work every day and listens to comedy podcasts on his ipod and he watches a documentary about highwire artist Phillpe Petit. ‘Ah,’ says Spiderman, ‘it must be amazing to feel so brave and alive’. But it does not feel so great; it still feels awful, says Phillipe, for pleasure merely fills the vacuum of itself. Years later, President Obama dies masturbating alone.

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Roshan Abraham

Whispers (remix of Whisper by Roshan Abraham)

Louie leaped up, grabbed my ankles, and pushed my body along the ground, yelling mean-spirited words at me. I picked up the words with my teeth. In this house we whisper, harsh and coarse. We whisper out the window, playing in this house, in our mouths, silly swords in our hands. Louie is all competitive. She slams prayers, all dicey from her larynx. She explores meat-caves, then runs her fingernails all over my vocal chords. The air makes eye contact. Wrestling air to a whisper. Crawling out of like a firefly. Houseplants deathly like heat. Louie lions a carcass. I climb on her shoulders. Slightly hunched as it’s a tiny room. Telephone with plastic cups for a receiver. Holding my voice with my other hand. Walking the distance up to Louie’s mouth. She disappears into rope. She jabs time. Beleaguered, I down my throat into her eyes. She becomes thinner. The sword goes into the sword, further deflating her. She slinks away, fingers glued to her head. Shrinking to the size of a search lamp. Louie running toy trucks past the bedroom. My Mother slinging gin across my mouth. Louie’s hand dragging a red glint across the sword. The cat comes in. Crawls onto the sofa bed. Hops down, up and into my larynx. Louie shrinks words by my neck.

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Shane Jesse Christmass is dominating this zine of mine.