Winter is half-way across the sea. There are butterflies on every bough. Each day, they unfold another water-colored wing. Crap. Those are leaves and this is pretentious spring.

The scent of hope between our lips. I want to ask if this was your idea of fun. I stay shut. Ask me why when fraternizing exhausts you. Days blow like cotton candy. This diaspora of virtues. I could shoot you point blank. Tell me you care.

Stain my mouth with yet another sulphur-lie. Teach me shades of pink.

But first, come here. Spell singularity.

Because if this that we drew is a map, then you darling, are an insincere home and I am just another name in your book of names. Nothing less.

Nothing more.

©Mohana Das


The rivers have forgotten their way home. There is rain.

Do you ever wonder why I never ask you to spell out my name? I like the way it tastes in your mouth. The sweet of salt estuary. The salt of sweet moonmilk. Mud creeks squelch in delirium.

Let me craft you a boat.

This is mirage and wetland. Deep green puppets slither behind shadows, their voices raspy with isolation. I know you hate crocodiles. I hate them too. And I hate how you outline your trees and horizons with your egg-headed crayon. You must always let your paints bleed, percolate down to the underbelly of the paper. Tell me now, must I draw you a map back home?

The mangroves awkwardly stick their roots out to breathe. Tides swell higher. You turn the map around, pretend to read coordinates, and crash in into my homeless arms, pockets full of infected affection, talking of death and drowning and prettiness.

And before I know, the river has erupted in a blaze. The stillness is metal.

©Mohana Das

Once upon a time, there was Candy and Dan. Things were very hot that year. All the wax was melting in the trees. He would climb balconies, climb everywhere, do anything for her, oh Danny boy. Thousands of birds, the tiniest birds, adorned her hair. Everything was gold. One night the bed caught fire. He was handsome and a very good criminal. We lived on sunlight and chocolate bars. It was the afternoon of extravagant delight. Danny the daredevil. Candy went missing. The days last rays of sunshine cruise like sharks. I want to try it your way this time. You came into my life really fast and I liked it. We squelched in the mud of our joy. I was wet-thighed with surrender. Then there was a gap in things and the whole earth tilted. This is the business. This, is what we’re after. With you inside me comes the hatch of death. And perhaps I’ll simply never sleep again. The monster in the pool. We are a proper family now with cats and chickens and runner beans. Everywhere I looked. And sometimes I hate you. Friday — I didn’t mean that, mother of the blueness. Angel of the storm. Remember me in my opaqueness. You pointed at the sky, that one called Sirius or dog star, but on here on earth. Fly away sun. Ha ha fucking ha you are so funny Dan. A vase of flowers by the bed. My bare blue knees at dawn. These ruffled sheets and you are gone and I am going to. I broke your head on the back of the bed but the baby he died in the morning. I gave him a name. His name was Thomas. Poor little god. His heart pounds like a voodoo drum.

― Luke Davies, Candy


Disgracefully, this iteration is emptying itself. I want to sleep. My mouth hurts from the unfamiliarity.

And I want to write you a poem about flowers. Their dyed skeletons. Their plastic tits. Instead I stuff a rag into my throat. Nothing happens. The night reeks of kerosene.

Tell me how to set fire to us.

Each of the trees that line our alley is obstinately bare. I unfold myself, squint at the brilliant slut that is my heart. Then everything is ash.

I beg. You plead. Together we dance the dance of death.

Under my skin, prickling veins burst into dawn. Tear me apart, I want to hiss. But there are promises. There is anachronism. An expletive called love. My 9 year old poem sneers at me from the corner of his eye.

I laugh.

The ceiling judders, spits venom. There are scars all along the entirety of me. I am lies and thorns and immiscibility. And I want to hold. I want to arrange. I want to align every glass thread that gives you a shape.

The moon is just a ball of lightless rock, dearest best friend. Look at my hands. Look how they bleed.

©Mohana Das

Because some cities are absolute poetry

And yes I am missing Melbourne like a lover, the kind of missing that creates an ache right next to your heart, and all you want to do is fly back, wrap yourself in that unfamiliar drizzle, search out the gravity pulling you back and let it hold you inside its Soul, like a secret, like an old love story. (At Changi Airport, 4th August ’13)

Since August last year, I’ve always thought of Melbourne with a wishful sigh. My four days of wintry whirlwind didn’t quench my thirst – it left me wanting more. When I sat at the airport watching an infant sun run her tongue on the metal aircrafts, my throat burnt. I wanted to run back into the speckled shadowy arms of the Victorian buildings under the sweet smelling star-lit shawl of the Yarra. I discovered the city on the my last night, a little tipsy from all the wine at my first tasting at the Yarra –

With a map in hand, I had started walking down Exhibition Street in the blooIMG_3611ming twilight. Flinders Street was gorgeously lit. I remembered the previous night, the glitzy South Bank, dinner with my friend Kerryn at Guiseppe Anoldi & Sons, the fiery heat of the fireballs lighting up the chill that clawed down to my bones. Tattooed trams whizzed home and away.I found my way past the Yarra, over the lovely Queen’s bridge and to the Eureka Towers. The view from the The Edge was mesmerizing. I remember sitting quietly, staring out at the pulsating city below, traffic moving in dots and dashes, trains pulling in and out of the station.

“And in that moment, I swear we were infinite.”

Later I found myself listening to the mass at St. Paul’s Cathedral. Something fragile in me wanted to cry.

Most of the other three days were spent travelling. The Great Ocean Road was a symphony in azure. I do not know how else must I describe it. The impossibly blue Antarctic beating against stretches of unexplored beaches, against walls of rocky IMG_3053mountains. The twelve apostles in all their regalia, a rain-lashed ocean and cold grey skies – not the conventional photographer’s choice you might say, but art nonetheless. Lorne with her restless rainbows arching up at leisure, yellow combed cockatoos dotting acres of grasslands, the Doug Stirling trail that snakes along the ocean. And the shimmery sunrise from the pier. I walked down desolate streets, past fences borne down with wild roses. I walked along the boulevard, past shut boutiques reflecting my sparkling eyes. Everything was bathed in the scent of fresh coffee mingled with eucalyptus-essence and sea-salt.




And ofcourse, Yarra Valley! It was winter and the vines were gnarled. Fuzzy yellow wattle heads were just beginning to show. A beautiful old lady from Tasmania told me, “You must come here in all seasons to know how truly magical the Yarra Valley is!” It got me thinking of clusters of grapes, the pink sakura, peaches and pears and apples and set me longing painfully. Even the stillness was so perfect.

I want to return. In summer. When the city is throbbing with life. In spring. When the flowers are battling in millions of beauty pageants. In autumn. When the russet of leaves line the sidewalks like a page from a crumpled poem. I want to explore the by-lanes and alleys of Melbourne, discover her chic and quirky street art. I want to unravel her carefully preserved secrets. I want to taste the aura of her cafe-lined streetscapes- with the sun in my hair, and pink lemonade oIMG_3426-001n my tongue. I want to sit at the Arts Centre and pen letters to every person I have loved and to every person who has loved me. I want to experience the bustle of the colourful Queen Victoria Market. I want to lose myself in the charming suburbs of Fitzroy/Collingwood and gape at the buildings that grace Carlton with its Italian vibe. I want to lie under a burning sun at the St.Kilda beach, laugh like a 10-year old at Luna Park and go squint-eyed at wonder at the aquarium. I want to lie under the southern stars on the verdant parklands, recite an ode for every constellation I can name. I want to ride in a hot air balloon at dawn, watch the city rubbing her sleepy eyes in the red-gold glow. I want to watch Federer play at the Rod Laver arena. I want to see the penguins at Philip Island. I want to see the sun rise from behind dollops of creamy clouds at Mornington. I want to see the Twelve Apostles standing tall in a sun ravished sapphire sea.

This list might be breathlessly long. But more than everything, I want to hear Melbourne telling me that she loves me too. I want to feel the warmth of her breaths deep under my skin.

When you ask me my reasons for falling in love with the world’s most liveable city, I lead you out in the moonshine and in a whisper tell you to listen to my heart. I promise you will know how certain cities are absolute poetry.


This post has been published for the Indiblogger “What’s your reason for falling in love with Melbourne, the most livable city in the world?” contest in association with Tourism Victoria.

Watch Tanmay & Rohan in the worlds’s greatest street art capital:

Official link: Tourism Victoria

Contest Alert!

Answer a simple question “Which of these places would you want to visit in Melbourne and why?” on my blog and the best answer wins an INR 500 shopping voucher!

Deadline: January 4th, 2015, 11:59 IST

love will make us

I think that people are so weird about nudity & the human body. Sex is not bad, naked bodies are not bad.
—Emily Browning

If you ask me if pre-marital sex is right or wrong, I’d tell you it is neither but a matter a choice. If you ask me I’d say yes or no to it, I’d tell you it totally depends on who I am with and how strong the bonds of trust are. I do not attach any sort of stigma whatsoever to it because pre-marital or post, sex is an expression of love.

I like to think of it this way: one day you find someone who fills your soul with sunshine in its entirety and finally after trust is won, and all doubts led to the grave, you want him to know you intimately and you want to know him intimately too. That is how it is with love, isn’t it? Pulling you towards the heart of it with ruthless grace, like gravity? Just because you desire someone physically without a wedlock, does the moment become less beautiful? And if you think sex makes you impure, think again because that one act is what creates a new life. You would ask what if you fall out of love? I’d ask what if in a marriage you fall out of love? Do you drag on and on like it is nothing but a chore? Or do you let go? In reality nothing happens even if you fall out of love. All that happens is you get a beautiful memory to cherish. But here’s the caution: impulsiveness will only ruin whatever fairytale you have imagined in your head. Even if you both are consenting adults, wait till you both are ready to let someone so overwhelmingly deep into your life. At the end of the day pre-/post- are just affixes.

Woody Allen nailed it when he said, “Is sex dirty? Only when it’s being done right.”

But despite all justifications that I can possibly mete out, sex is a very emotionally charged act and without the passion, commitment and love it ceases to be any of the poetry I just talked about and because of the stigma that is attached to pre-marital sex in our very confused society that tries attributing everything it can lay hands on on the culture of the subcontinent instead of paraphrasing the reasons that explain the mindset, it can lead to a psychological crisis. Often, women especially, end up drowning in a sea of irrational guilt and fear. School kids, who gather all the wrong knowledge from all the wrong sources because the hypocritical taboo wouldn’t let them ask the questions that plague their mind, end up doing it when they are least ready and it scars them emotionally.

There is nothing wrong with sex, not even pre-marital sex, if you are mentally mature to accept and deal with the magnanimity of the act.


Goodnight, Drawing by Ellie Steinig, Courtesy Berlin ArtParasites

This post has been published for Indiblogger’s Yes or No to pre-marital sex contest.

Buy Poonaam Uppal’s True Love – A Mystical True Love Story on Flipkart.

Say hello to Lucky 6!

Nay! This isn’t about Mrs.Friggs’ cabbage-smelling fat cats or some distant cousin of the Famous 5! But this sure is magic- the Gringotts type! How?

Because here we talk of life-changing prizes. Think cash and luxury holidays! Didn’t think an itsy-bitsy game on your Smartphone could give you that instead of the regular virtual points and ofcourse, candy and farm crops (virtual ofcourse!), did you? So, well, say hello to Lucky 6!

Developed by Fat Cat gaming, the Lucky 6 game aims to revolutionize the world of gaming. Successful games are addictive and challenging but with repetitive arcades and virtual rewards, at a point they seem to lose their appeal. People get bored, the hype dies out and it’s gone. Lucky 6 talks of life-changing jackpots. They are huge and alluring! Read: they are everything that will pull gamers to it and make them stay. This is lottery, but with a twist! Lucky 6 has all the elements to change the lottery scene in India, most of which turn out to be scams. People spend hundreds and thousands of buck buying lottery tickets every day with hopes of winning big. Less than a fraction do. But with Lucky 6, everyone is a potential winner. And it just gets bigger and better if you invite your friends along to play as well. If they win, you win too! And it is not just a bunch of gemstones you stash away on your game account. It is real. It is tangible.

The interface is sleek and swanky- minimal white and green with li’l bit of colours thrown in. Moving around is very easy, and playing your first game is easier! All you have to do is pick six of your favourite brands instead of picking numbers, and see if their stocks see the highest gains on game day. Ofcourse, a little knowledge of the stock market won’t hurt! And if you’re worried, let me assure you that every brand involved is a household name. You don’t need to go googling them, checking their market goodwill, their market shares and blah blah! You just have to do the selection and wait till game day with bated breath! There is absolutely no worry about being scammed here! For every game, there is a player who wins the jackpot. Still wondering how can winning be this easy? Don’t worry, we are, too! Just tap on the thumbnails of your dearest brands, swipe around a little and you are all set.

If you are wondering, where the money is coming from, let me tell you that this game-changing concept applied here is called crowd funding and this is the word that differentiates Lucky 6 from traditional lottery. The market is enormous and revenue generation is very very quick. Lucky 6 will first launched in India, followed by Latin America, China and beyond.

Already hooked, aren’t you?


Looking smug!

This post is published for the Indiblogger Happy hours Contest, Getting lucky has never been this easy! Photo courtesy: http://2.bp.blogspot.com/

Official link: http://fatcatgaming.com/