Yes, it’s true what they say. Money cannot buy you happiness. But it sure can buy you 5 star vacations and that’s about as happy as a grown-up can get. Sure, there’s the unhinged, unwavering, unwarranted happiness that is in a child. But that child grows up, in a society fret with problems. Problems created by grown-ups who build schools and colleges to help solve those problems. Talk about going in circles.

I have been on the planet over three decades and I can narrow down to two moments of sheer joy: one, when I married my now adulterous husband, and two, when I saw the man holding my baby in his arms. If that isn’t true love, I fail to see what is. And that same man denied me a hug a minute ago because “he needed some time apart”. I don’t even have any Valiums on me to counter that shrug. All I can do is whine to the world, where I know I am not even going to be heard. This man, he cheated, lied, and beat me up and blamed me for everything. I have started thinking that maybe I am the monster who torments someone so much they want to beat the shit out of them.

I have sobbed, slept on hotel floors, waited for a taxi at 2 in the morning because I was thrown out of the house, made to leave my child behind, been called a whore who can’t even sell her body for sex, and beaten up black and blue; why? Because I asked this person why he needed another woman in his life.

Five tequila shots down, I finally have the courage to share my story. I know there would be several women out there going through this and worse shit possible. If you are one of them, leave a message and the least we can do is give a metaphorical shoulder to cry upon. YES, face it, world! Women cry. They’re not being melodramatic, they’re just being real.

And if you are one of those wife-beaters, please, for the love of whatever you love, stop doing that, no matter how much she provokes you. You were born out of a woman. And just because someone annoys you or you are filled with rage, does not give you the right to hit a woman. Women are not the weaker sex. Women are the smarter sex. That’s why “housewives” is more common than “househusbands”. That’s right, we put our pedicured feet up and send the man to make money to buy us shoes.

In spite of everything, a woman would do anything in her power and beyond to protect her family. She is not just a mama bear to her sons and daughters. She’s mothering you as well, the “breadwinner”. She’s the glue that keeps it together; without her, everything would fall all over. RESPECT, mofos, RESPECT!


Mad dogging,

Tea bagging,

Sleepy child

In the waiting.

Pills like Nurse Jackie,

Chicken and rosemary,

Munching, crunching,

Silver tooth glittering.

Shot glasses, lime wedges,

Shite music blaring.

Anxious and loving,

Caring and soothing,

Tossed out without thinking.

Anger and frustration,

Midnight masturbation,

Raging bitch manifestation.

Sleep now, little one.

Mama’s gotta be strong,

For you and them bones.

Breathe in, breathe out,

If it wasn’t for that drought,

There’d be water in the well,

And we’d kill the mademoiselle.


I got one way tickets,

To a place I don’t want to go.

I have no home,

But here I am, not being slow.

I am asked to leave,

Because I fought,

For the love of my life,

And for being a bad wife.

I did nothing wrong,

Or so I think.

When I was shown my flaws,

I began to sink.

With a heavy heart,

I kissed my child,

Told him to go to school,

And not be a tool.

A decade of happiness,

Was deciphered as unhappiness.

I had no idea I was living a lie,

I thought everything was,

As sweet as a pie.

My two best men,

They let me go;

To face the world,

With a broken mould.

I want to go back,

And give them a hug.

But I know, before long,

I will be a rug.

My tears mean nothing,

My heart is still longing,

For that one person to say,

You belong here darling.

Like a pillar,

That can blink.

But cannot move.

Goes around the focus,

But never in focus.

Take me over,

Guitars and cymbals.

I have love to give.

I know not where.

My head spins,

I jive.

The mother and children,

They wait.

To sleep and forget.

The agony.

Clouds in sky,

Clouds in mind,

Rain in blue.

Thirty four years,

And four years.


The love, for two men.

Dotted by tears and smiles.

Happy and sad,

Part of life.

If death comes by,

I am camera ready.


I was sixteen,

Father was fifty.

I was ill,

Mother was at work.

Father came home early

To check on me.

I asked for hot cocoa,

He made it for me.

Handed me the cup,

It slipped off of me.

I cried like a child,

Sobbing, “Sorry, Daddy”

He said it’s alright,

And wiped the spill.

Years went by,

Father was sixty eight.

I was a grown woman,

Father got sick,

He was in pain.

I brought him home,

To keep him company.

Drugged and confused,

He asked for a juice.

I held the drink to his mouth,

The straw slipped with a splash.

He said, “Sorry dear, I am weak”

I said, “It’s okay Daddy, sometimes,

We all get a little sick.”

Prose to poetry- trying…

Kindergarten teachers,

You are the ones,

That FBI and Interpol should recruit,

For interrogating criminal minds!

You deal with snotty monsters,

With the innocuous rants;

All fifteen of them loaded,

With sugar-coated bombs.

You kiss the boo-boos away,

You hug them when they throw up,

You sing to them, and read to them,

Like a mom and dad would dream of.

You make them dance,

You make them prance;

At your voice, they form a queue,

At your command, they are a view!

These four-year olds are tough,

As tough as they can be.

And therefore I say,

You should handle the guilty. 

You wield a power unfathomable,

That no parent ever can.

For loving and hardening at the same time,

Seems very very tough.

Those charged guilty,

Of unimaginable crimes,

Aren’t they the same as,

A child acting up as a prime?

The child is innocent,

The grown-up is not,

But you, as a teacher,

Can notice the point!


** A BIG SHOUTOUT to all the TEACHERS.. You people are doing the most noble work in the world! (Started out as a prose and ended up with this, four beers down.. LOL)


Pregnancy is a magical time, my a**!

I was just turning 30, and for long, I had decided I’d go wild on my 30th. The wildest my pocket could afford was Thailand. I was exhilarated, to walk on the same sands that Leonardo DiCaprio did, to get in trouble the same way Bradley Cooper did and to visit the Roger Moored limestone cliff. Yes, I was going to Thailand to celebrate my 30th. Instead, I got a home-pregnancy test which proclaimed I was pregnant. And with those two pink lines showing up, I regurgitated. I suddenly started feeling tired and restless and oh-so-hormonal. I cried and cried and called up my husband, who, knowing me, said, “Do not panic, we will talk about it.” TALK ABOUT IT!? Did he mean, Thailand, or the pregnancy? At that thought, I again projectile-vomited the breakfast and probably dinner from the previous night. There ended my fantasy trip to Thailand.

When my husband returned home, he had already gotten me things I detested whole-heartedly- fruit, protein bars, protein biscuits, a rainbow of vegetables, dairy of all sorts – he already wanted a plump chump. I could tell he was excited and I wasn’t. How can one be excited when one has been retching all day like a cat swallowed a hairball? All I could keep in my mouth were ice cubes. So, we talked in between me gagging and gasping for air, and him instructing me to eat well, exercise and all the things those books say to do. In my mind, I saw red. The first appointment with the OB-GYN was an eye-opener. I was supposed to swallow a sea of pills, not the fun kind either. She prodded and poked and said, “You’re good to go.” I was momentarily happy. I thought she meant Thailand. Woefully, I know she meant the baby. We cut a small cake at home on my birthday, me crying, husband trying to cheer me up, then me throwing up the small piece of cake which had morphed into a yellow and green and amoebic jelly-like goo. So I was back to sucking ice-cubes.

I woke up in the mornings, and first thing I did was throw up at least half a dozen times. Because the smell of the tooth-paste didn’t agree with me, I again threw up. Chocolate milk (YES, CHOCOLATE MILK!) didn’t agree with me, coffee didn’t agree with me, tea didn’t agree with me. So I sucked on ice cubes. I didn’t bond with the slowly growing foetus like soon-to-be-mothers do, not in the first trimester, not in the second, not in the third, not when the baby was out. You see, all this while, I was throwing up, up and away. I would be pretending to work whilst being comfortably parked on my specially-designed-for-pregnant-women chair, and all of a sudden, I’d be retching, yelling, “Gangway! Gangway!” to get to the bathroom. I think I spent more time in the bathroom while being pregnant than any other place.

I’d been diagnosed with a very rare condition of Hyperemesis Gravidarum. My file at the OB-GYN was the bulkiest of all of her patients put together. In the car, out of the car, at the doctor’s, in the park, at work, on the road, in a mall, in a restaurant, just about to hit the toilet, there was not a place I didn’t throw up. I lost weight. People actually asked me when I was five months pregnant, “Are you really pregnant? It’s not showing!” LOL.. Oh how I wanted to hit a chair in their faces. Foods that I once liked, made me recoil in horror. To add to this madness, I also developed Trypophobia. So even flowers and such made me gag. I was a walking, talking, vomit-machine. I’d stopped feeling embarrassed about my condition, must be the mama-bear instinct kicking in. If people frowned while I was retching on the side of the road, the vomit and my hair, swaying together in the wind, I’d just yell at them, “Do you want me to throw up on you?”

The whole phase of shopping for the baby was a blur. My husband was the excited one, so he did it all- the crib and the washcloths and the diapers and the bottles, sterilisers, the swaddling techniques, the nursery, everything. I just ordered a teddy-bear online because I’d heard kids like teddy-bears.(Mine didn’t care for it). I was quietly tucking away the vomit-inducing protein bars to the ants and dogs and whatever creatures I could find and claiming at the end of the day I ate them all. All I could eat was ice cream and ice cubes- that made me realize that my baby would turn out pretty cool, the mother eating all these cold things.

The first trimester ended, the doctor said, the sickness will stop now. The second trimester ended, the doctor said, the sickness will stop now. The third trimester ended, the doctor said, it’s not going to end, you’re a weird one. DUH!

So, all the joys of pregnancy were washed away with a gazillion toilet flushes. There was no glow on my face, just a very frowny sweat. I didn’t have to buy maternity pants. My old pants fit just fine. The baby kicked and kicked, like I was holding him hostage inside me. My abdomen was in constant pain and I didn’t sing or talk to the baby. I listened to a lot of Jack Johnson and now when I hear him, I throw up.

Finally, the water broke. There was thankfully no labour pain, I said, “Cut it open!” It was a little scary, being butt naked, epidural in the spine, a team of doctors, all poking and stretching and going squish-squish in my innards. Finally, the boy was out. A big blob, like from “Stranger Things”. I don’t know if it was the drugs or the “motherly love”, but when he was shown to me in that state, I kissed his feet.

I don’t remember the next few days much, except shouting a lot at my husband, eating like a pig and singing “Like a rolling stone” when I was alone with my son. I still didn’t feel a very strong bond, but there was something that made me wake up every now and then and check on him. People said strange things like, “He looks like his mother” or, “He looks like his father”. What a load of faeces! He looked like a pink blob with no hair.  Some even said he had my nose and my fingers. Again, I wanted to tear the curtains down and strangle them. I know they were just being polite, but sometimes, its nice to just leave a pound of cake for the new mother and say, “Enjoy!” All the 9 months of surviving on ice cubes and pills and an occasional pint of ice cream had made me monstrously hungry. So much so, that my husband resorted to formula-feeding (I know, I know, the breastfeeding lobbyists! That magic fountain didn’t work either.) I couldn’t unbury my face from the mountain of food. I wasn’t cut out to be a mother, honestly, but here I was. Singing Pearl Jam’s “Jeremy” as a lullaby.

Over time, yes, we bonded, soon after the month (or two) long post-partum depression ended. At the age of 1 month, he knew mother was not to be disturbed when she was eating or while Downton Abbey was on. His father, on the other end, treated him like God. He was more a mother than I will ever be. My son and I bonded over strange things, like smelling fresh oranges, looking in the mirror while eating bananas, dancing in the shower while bursting bubbles, staring at fairy lights, spitting out watermelon seeds, jumping in puddles…

He’s 4 now and I’ve told him the story of my pregnancy many-a-times. He always has two questions:

  1. Why did you eat me?
  2. Why didn’t you throw up in the bathroom? 

And yes, I love him more than it shows. I have my ways of showing love, and he knows that. 🙂


Conversations with a boy

As I was walking alongside a young boy of 4, who happens to be my offspring, he remembered the canopied lane that he had walked down before, dressed as a human-carrot, about three months ago. Says he, “Momma, we’ve been here before, haven’t we?”. I smiled at the thought of having that question posed to me after eons. Before I could answer, he quipped excitedly, “We came here on Halloween!” I grinned and said, “Yes, we did, and I am happy you remember that. But why do you remember that?” Says he, like any other child would, “Because I got so many candies.” Being one-of-those-parents who restrict sugar, I argued, “I didn’t let you eat any of the candies though.”

Now, the conversation took a turn. He said, “Momma, can we again have Halloween?” I laughed at this notion and asked, “Why?”. What he said made me laugh and proud at the same time. He said, “Because Momma, do you remember, we gave all the candies to the other kids who couldn’t get any because they didn’t have money to dress up and also because I want to dress up as Captain America.”  What a paradox he had unleashed! He wanted to give away his loot to the charity, and at the same time wanted to dress up as one of momma’s favourite superheroes to gather more candies, only to give them all away.

I went on to explain, trying to keep my burgeoning feelings at bay, that Halloween comes once a year. And then he again questioned, “Why?” Why, indeed! He reasoned, “I go to school everyday, not once a year. And school is fun. Halloween is also fun. Why can’t we have Halloween more often?” I have to admit, I agreed with him. But having been given the job of playing the bad cop, I reasoned, “Because if we have something very often, we would not enjoy it as much.” He simply said, “I would.”

I rest my case. Being right on so many levels, I had no will to squabble over the impracticality of the arrangement he proposed. I decided to instead humour him with a piece of candy, albeit the organic, fruity, home-made lousy kind, and changed the conversation to Captain America’s Vibranium shield, which, to my utter trepidation, he referred to as “wheel”. Oh life!