Archive for November, 2013

The sun didn’t shine for me
Daddy the last three days
The wind was just too cold
I thought of you and I tried to cry
But tears didn’t come to me
Like frozen icicles
They hung in the window
Of my heart
She said no daddy
I thought of you once more.

I could have been wrapped up
In your tender arms
I could have waited
For her to say yes
But once a no
Shuts out the heart
The key is lost in time.

I could have waited for you
Daddy, to hold me tight
She said no
This wintry night
Its blazing winters
Inside my soul
Although I am told
The sun has just come out
Daddy, I am so cold.

And angry

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I would like to give my life
I would like to die
To this moment
To hold in my ears
The sound of the Eternal

I would like to take to ochre
And dress with nothing on
Save the name written
In my soul

Of love they say
It is an infliction
Of the mind
They never say the same

I would like to throw
The burden of waiting
For the Name
Written across my destiny


With your coming
the pain sleeping in my eyelids
have subsided.
The little plant hiding in the seed
has sprung up to meet the sky.
My heart has come alive
with our relationship.

My eyes have opened
with ecstasy
Surprise, shock
laughter, goose bumps
admiration sparkle
in these eyelids.

In the screaming mind
loneliness persisted
but emerging from behind the curtain today
the frozen, cold moments sped away
the heavy burden days disappeared.

Half comfort
half happiness
thus, surprise
In these eyelids



Rough translation/transcreation JD  & KN

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Rain drenched forests

And reasoned roads

Lead to anti-thesis of goals

It might have rained emotions

All night through

The rain drenched

Leaves of the mind look

Fresh and green

But reasoned roads

Colour the vision

To the hues of sunset

At early dawn

Alas! Rain drenched forests

And reasoned roads

Lead to anti-thesis of goals



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Many years ago, the man who took me to do Copy at his agency, turned out to be a man of deep emotions. As much as he was his father’s pet and had spent a sizable amount of time, loafing around in different family businesses, he finally deserted it all to start out on his own. Together with a childhood friend he opened an agency which had ready clients from all segments. Naturally he did not have to do the licking arse kind of stunts because all our clients were in some way or the other related to his family.

Our agency was perpetually full of slender women with beautiful looks with high ambitions. Most of them were very professional too. Many of them found me their engagement outside the boss’s cabin and they sat and chatted with me forever. Among them were many who finally landed films and then forgot their small days as aspiring models in an advertising agency.

Among those of us who were working there, was one smart little lady, who knew how to get her way with the boss. She came in with a recommendation and quickly took up to habits that you wore to prove you were like ‘different’. She wore her sari low, exposing a milk white midriff and she wore her lips red, blazing red. And between her lips she always hung a Marlboro or a State Express, because the boss smoked 555. The aroma in the office was State Express, and our poor Five Square Kingsize took a real beating.

She hung around with the boss after hours while the Receptionist went off with clients. That dirty old Gupta of Meera Cookware was forever cooking up dates with her. In fact, he really cheated on us, because, he used all the ladies and took them to his pleasure chambers but returned with nothing for the agency.

One day the boss called me in. He said that the copy i wrote for Meera was great but the executive on the job killed it with her juices. I was aghast!

“I would have thrown her out,” he said, ‘had she not broken into tears and pleaded that, indeed, it is she who felt used, destroyed. I can’t bear to see women in tears.” He ended, looking at me seriously.

My mind went back to the tears my woman had shed, on the day we were leaving each other after nine months of loving each other. I remembered the tears remained like a patch on my white shirt of the school uniform and how, I never gave it for a wash, thereafter. How I would hold the shirt against my cheek as if I was holding her.

“I can’t bear to see women in tears, too.” I agreed.

My first boss and I shared a lot more between us. I was his kid – the cub copy writer in his first agency. It was my first job too.


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Thank god, the phallus and the penis are not the same thing.

What this means is, phallus is a concept in the mind, the penis is an extended muscle between the legs of a human animal who is gendered male. Also, he is not someone, who proclaims that his gender is fluid and hence, really he cannot say, whether, that extended muscle ought to be there or not, because he himself is flowing this way or that.

No, I am talking of one, who was I think, though I have not seen it myself, one with the protrusion but rather gentle at heart, the type you can easily put into the ‘box’ called fluid.

But of course, amma would not like him at all. She’s this kind of person who has been holding fort – And forth, that this muscle hanging between the legs must be worshiped because, it is the producer, the thinker, the deliverer of our deliverance. Thus, every morning she stoops to place her heart and soul in the name of a penis, standing on a yoni (by the way, if you did not know what it means, is vagina) and prays that this may go on, for life after life. I mean that the extended muscle must continue to push its presence through the vagina. Such non-sense there! She is like one who would lie in bed and wait. As soon as she felt someone pull her big toe, she would rise and quietly submit to his wishes. This toe puller was usually her husband. Now, consider, what is it that made her submits with such docility, this pulling-toe habit? Her worship of the penis standing straight over the vagina of course!

Now, I who have a phallus in my mind am a woman. But the man I loved most in my youth was one who had a penis between his legs but was gender fluid. Imagine the pressure on his life, when, he was forced upon with a woman, whose thoughts were like, amma’s.

About him I would say, that his was a life of torture. Difficult damsels with hardened thoughts around objects such as penis obsession are as bad on gentle men, as hardened men, with only one thought in mind, that being a woman’s breast.

Conversation Piece

My Portuguese-bred colleague
picked up a clay shivalingam
one day and said:
Is this an ashtray?
No, said the salesman,
This is our god.

© 1979, Eunice de Souza
From: Fix
Publisher: Newground, Mumbai, 1979


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Turbulence in partnership is the only proof that you are in a serious relationship.

Recently, due to changing environment in mine, there has been a lot of it. Having completed thirteen years of a relationship, the fourteenth has come with its own itch.

Lots of changes are going on and I had foreseen them long ago, but now that I am in the middle of it all, I confess, it is taking all my energy to cope up with it, maintain a sane balance and fall into the new model of co-existence/partnership.

This said, may I bring you into the folds of my secret? That being, this is not my first relationship at all. I have had a few to learn from. However, for my partner, this is the first serious relationship. You can now imagine the real problem. One is old enough; the other is being pushed to grow up too soon and ouch! It does hurt.

But I was there only a few years ago, well maybe a decade or three ago, and I learnt to stand up and walk too. So will the other.

But this is not why I am writing. My real reason is, I have started after much soul searching, begun to look at what I left behind, thirteen years ago.
Indeed, I will say, many years ago. And so I am re-visiting myself, the self that loves and appreciates men in my life, from my childhood onward.

Take for instance, my maternal uncle, who put his own life and family aside, to take care of a sister, who was ill and in the family way, with no support from her husband.

Although, at the beginning, as soon as I was born, he urged my mother to return to her marital home, when, she along with her sister, voiced an anxiety to do so, he accepted that his sister along with her new born baby will live with him and he must then, put his own life aside for the time being and focus on theirs.

I was the star of his eyes. He loved me till I grew into a rebellious teenager. Our thoughts clashed and if he said A, then I would certainly say NOT A. If he challenged the clothes I wore, I ensured that I wore them out more blatantly. If he said that T-shirts hugged my growing body too much, I ensured I wore them low enough to expose parts he was referring to. Hence, we battled, nobody knows why, on things I now look back and realise was cut between being traditional and modern.

Was he out playing the anger he may have had in his heart towards his sister for making him put away his life? But it was his choice, wasn’t it? He decided to play the self-sacrificing saviour.

But now I look back and I know. He did his best; he did what he thought best at that moment. And if he was angry about it, it was anger he felt for his own self. It was not anger he felt around me as a person, really, but I was vulnerable and could not retaliate in words, although I did argue and made my stand clear. It was not enough.

I became a rebel. Sprouting from my anger towards him, I spread it around to other men as well, for too long, too hard and too much to bear, even by me.

I would like to put that sword down today. It has served its purpose completely. I know, we have both been fighting each other, our anger rising and feeding into each other’s fire. I want to throw ash on that fire, ash that has burnt both him and me and many who came along on my way.

It is time; I put away an old battle. Or I will lose this one; I am fighting with the fourteen year itch.

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