Marital Rape



He was like a weaver bird
Who built a large palace on the grounds of an arboretum,
And a fancier one inside her fallen heart
He courted her with riches
And embellished her with glitz. Countless facets
Would twinkle like a starry constellation
On her fingers, the pendant stone was
Amethyst, and the hotel rooms he took her to,
Were plush boutique, hidden beneath
Beautifully formed hillocks
And cascading waterfalls.

And she gifted her heart to him, wrapped in
Assamese silk and a hymen stitched
In pure satin. Her body was made of cellulose fibrils,
Cotton from head to toe, and fragile
In composition and thread. Still
She didn’t see him as a mongoose, a weasel,
Or a pole cat, just a man who would climb in
And out of her body while promising
Her all that a woman could ever want.
A cottage, a baby in a cot and a courtyard
And yet, she was only the courtesan,

-Till that day she was legally his,
To devour……. –

And he bamboozled her with words
Of carnal drapery and borrowed her lip-satin
For sorrowful fetishes,
And he would always get what he wanted.
He ravaged her with the fortitude
Of an alpha primate, who shadowed
Every one of her senses with fear.
He darted in and out of her body, like a piston
Through her vagina and made coercive love
With no sign of repentance or a feeling of compassion.

And she was torn every time
Like a cotton garment with threshed filaments
And there was nothing she could do.
You could say, she was kidnapped by a certified paper
Held hostage by a 24 carat ring
Raped by a vow of fidelity
And hushed by the lingering shame

And now she looks at a baby inside a cot
Knowing he will grow up
Never to learn the truth – that he is a child of rape,
Worse, his father was the rapist.
Protected by a vow, her husband will stand
With a puny little rodent between his legs,
Crushing a woman who loves him back.

And there are stories like this
Everywhere you look, when marriage
Is just a safe house for conjugal rape.
This land of ours has anecdotes worthy of voice,
Worthy of poetic justice, worthy of prison cells,
And unworthy of secretive masks,
Of a sometimes-forgotten and perhaps
Conveniently-omitted condition
For the oldest-known commodity traded
Between man and woman.

How endearing is it to find a Boolean choice
Facing every transaction of love.
And two simple but beautiful words standing in-between,
As legal gatekeepers,

And vigilant guardians of free-will,
In paramount consent.


Austen Country

Pride and Prejudice

The sexual revolution, like a juggernaut,
Moves on, with no hope what so ever
Of stopping it or slowing it down.
So I step up, to sell marriage,
A haven, sacrament and institution,
And a sweet home to many.

When I say that I’m a non-conformist
I mean to say that I change in retrograde
In the complete opposite direction of change,
Everyone else embraces – the anterograde kind.
I look out of my two window panes,
I see the fall of Victorian dresses billow
Bigger than dinosaur bellies and gentlemen
Lift their hats every time a woman
Passes by. I see a little pact between man and woman, that is,
Undergoing both devolution and irrelevancy,
Like the corset, or courtesy,
Stubbornly resisting the inevitable,
Almost like the stones of Stonehenge,
Her timelessness endowing man,
With an offering of legitimacy,
Of an otherwise commonplace ritual
Of bed hopping.

And by design, falling in love,
Is simply developing staying power
To the custom of mounting beds,
When man develops that recurring feeling
– Sometimes a sheer constant – that the freedom
To walk away, is only negligible,
To the compulsive need to stay,
And occupy a room, both,
On the inside and out.

And in Austen country, there are
Those who cheer on this haven. The “Liz”s
And “Darcy”s, who have become sheer
Misnomers in modernity. Being a romantic,
Is far from policing your bodies,
Or being sentinels on guard posts.
It is the sheer pleasure in knowing the unknown
Is as mythical as the dream prophesizes.
How beautiful to have another
At the caressing distance of a breath,
Gold orbiting like rings of Saturn,
In that near-perfect moment,
Butterflies start to settle on your skin,
While beneath, a tsunami wave is breaking loose,
About to engulf all in her corridor.
And all you can do is to resist, the resistance,
Just wanting to be washed away
As far as you can. How endearing,
Not knowing, what you’re feeling.
And still letting that feeling control you,
Till you exclaim; as your resistance,
Finally breaks,

And now, you are no longer a Jane Austen novel.
Just a page of Mills and Boon

The Cart and the Bull


We linger, in that evolving stage
Where you have gone past the first comfort zone
And you are as comfortable as 
A koala on a eucalyptus tree.
Marriage was the cart, the bull came a little afterwards,
Unlike the more celebrated type in the 21st century.
Our solemn pledge to stay celibate
Making us immovable from a stance
That was both sponsoring love,
And refreshing a catholic tradition.
And the bull came true, the day we became man and woman
And oh boy, the bull could pull
The cart more than we had ever anticipated.
We were in Pamplona,
On most days, of our first year of marriage.
Flesh-relations were just letting the bull loose
And the cart stood as pledge, stamping love.
Letting the cart usher in the bull,
Was just our way of acknowledging
That we knew each other implicitly
Before making the explicit count.
And the beast of beasts,
Used love – the raging type – to preserve the cart,
As the beauty of all modern beauties.

Life and Death

Moon 2

There is a small water fern
Called Azolla, which I do scientific
Experiments with. This water fern
As a symbiotic partner, which has co-habited
The plant, through 140 million years.
A symbiosis like no other.
The symbiont, a life form called Cyanobacteria
Lives inside a cavity in the Azolla leaf.
So what makes this co-existence special?
It’s the complete dependency of the endosymbiont in Azolla
Similar to what marriage does to you.
I now cannot live in independence
Of my wife, deprived of the small things,
Like, heating the food in the microwave,
Making me shake from time to time, like a vibrating
Mobile phone, joking on small
Things that we take for granted
Like our toes and the way they angle.
We are like the Azolla plant,
An eternity beckoning, yet knowing
The almighty truth that we are
Limited by a lifespan, that indefinite
Period of finding our way through
A maze, that riddle always on the tip of one’s nose,
But can never be coughed out as words,
Tipped out from tongues.

Wedding Anniversary 2

Margarita Pizza

The faceoff between history and time
In that tradeoff of love; leaning like the tower of Pisa
On fate and making that perfect circle,
With comes with a few greasy cheesy toppings,
Into a margarita. Looking at the Pizza box
After two years, knowing that the dough
Is still sound, and yet acquiescing to that feeling
That the toppings have diminished over time.
The jagged circle is still imperfect
Just like my wife and me, who have never-ever cried
Over spilled toppings. The cheesy – the flowers
The lingerie, the gifts – are scanty pickings
And still how beautiful is a simple pizza
That never lets you go beneath the covers
On an empty tummy. We are only as Italian
As the love we make from time to time,
And yet how beautiful is the ripple
Of the Gondola, to the slow drown of Venice.

Two Wedding Poems

Daniela & Frank's Gorgeous Cambridge Mill Wedding, Anne Edgar Photography
Daniela & Frank’s Gorgeous Cambridge Mill Wedding, Anne Edgar Photography

In Sickness and Health

In the rain-fed landslides 
Of stockpiled chemistries
Promenade down a nave
To a whitened shrine
Where one syndrome pledges
To muster a lifetime of grit
To bloom a beautiful water lily
Over mud-spoilt earth

The Father of the Bride

The two feet
That you buckled on a cot
The two eyes that stared
At you like you were the full moon.
The two palms that wrapped around
Your fingers demanding
A little grip.

Now two party heels
On top of which she dances,
Her two arms knowing another.

Too soon, how time opened a water lily,
To be the cynosure of a little pond,
Where the pickers are many,
But keepers are few.



Every Nicholas Sparks
Novel has a twist to the plot.
And there’s nothing more heartbreaking
Than the loss of a larger-than-life character.

And I, two years into my marriage
Is hopelessly scared that I might not be worthy
Of a woman, who looks through a kaleidoscope
And is married to a man who looks
Through the porthole of a leaking trawler.

And glee and gloom they do mix very well though
On an abstract painting that slips
Unnoticed to the future, taking us along.
The vanilla skies beautifully afloat
Until the gale blows

And we jaywalk like the monsoons
Until we crash into each other
When accidents leave behind casualties
Of our own securities, that prolong the beauty
Of moan-powered engines
Of those mounds of flesh on a marriage bed

By itself, a bedrock.