There is a wonderful online portal that discusses relationships called Their tag line is “Real Couples. Real Conversations.” And in keeping with the “Make in India” times of our country, this website is a product of a smart, savvy, homegrown bunch, all from apna desh.

Why this intriguing name? Well, bonobos, also known as pygmy chimpanzees, are our closest living relatives. They, along with their cousins, the chimpanzees, share a whopping 99% of our DNA! They show characteristics of empathy, patience and altruism. They are kind and sensitive, but are also capable of getting aggressive too. When it comes to sex, they are the only non-human animal to engage in tongue kissing, oral sex and face-to-face coitus. But that’s where the similarity ends, because other than those few moves…well, let’s just say that it’s a never-ending Carnavale de Rio meets Mardi Gras meets Navratri Dandiya with multiple orgies thrown in for good measure. explores the dynamics of relationships in this ever-changing, fast-paced life of ours, the good, the bad, the funny, the ugly and the dark. They also have an impressive line-up of doctors and experts who write articles and even address questions sent in by the readers.

I’ve been invited to write for the portal and am sharing the first few that have been posted on their site. I look forward to writing more which I will share on my blog as well.

I hope you enjoy reading these reviews and articles. The first is a review of Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni’s best-selling “The Palace of Illusions”, the second is a review of Sharanya Manivannan’s highly acclaimed, “The High Priestess Never Marries” and the third is a piece about a wife’s realisation about her husband’s deep love for her after many years of marriage.

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October Online

Not exactly a book review; rather some wonderings-out-loud 🙂

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September Poetry

Another poem of mine, published here:

I hope you enjoy reading it!

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So remember my last blog post about a poem I wrote, “From the Dingy Apartment Everywhere”,and which appeared last month in the online magazine called “The Algebra of Owls” (oh how I love that name!)? Well, it’s up for poem of the month. Yaay!

Kind people who still read this mainly defunct blog, please do vote. Just click on the link below and do the needful. Thanking you and wishing you poetry, moonlight and chocolate.

21st Century Poetry

Source: Welcome

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From the Dingy Apartment Everywhere – by Baisali Chatterjee Dutt

Coming to this space of mine after AGES! And that too for selfish reasons…for archival purposes. I keep promising myself I’ll be more regular. I guess I’ll just have to surprise myself 🙂


Between the space of your last grunt                                                                       and first snore, there is much to do. I must first peel……

Source: From the Dingy Apartment Everywhere – by Baisali Chatterjee Dutt

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What I am about to share here is nothing new. The feelings are as old as the Art of the Word. This is not my first time feeling these feelings, nor will it be my last

and I know I am not the only one. There are others who have felt this way and died millions of tiny little deaths inside their souls, and there are people, as yet unborn, who will inherit this awful legacy.

Writer’s Block.

How does one kill a feeling? How does one gain mastery over it? Conquer it? Most important of all, how does one not let it cripple you?

The blank pages staring back at you, sometimes unyielding, sometimes pleading and sometimes just stone cold dead, aren’t the worst things about this affliction. The plague of self-doubt that tags along as a side effect? Yes. That is quite the cyanide pill.

Writer’s Block. Bloc. Blog.


Like a stuffed up bladder with no release. Like killer constipation. Because this feeling? It’s as shitty as fresh dog poop on the heel of your expensive new shoes.

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The Rhino Speaks

I was going to start off by saying ‘Last year…’, but I just did a quick check and the text reads, “First published – February 2013”, so that’s two years ago. Two years ago. Already. Already the first month of the new year over. Just like that! Sigh!

But, as usual, I digress. Two years ago, a poem of mine was selected for an international anthology called, “For Rhino in a Shrinking World”, edited by poet Harry Owen. Recently, we were informed about a lovely review that came out in which my poem was mentioned. Some of my friends have requested me to share the poem. Now being the good friend that I am, how can I not oblige?

So here it is. My poem, “The Rhino Speaks.” And below, the link to the review.


The Rhino Speaks

Sit down,
o stranger-with-a-gun,
and let me talk to you.
Before you render me
one with the dust again,
you must know me.

Did you know,
for example,
that in my next life
I would like to be me again?

What do you see
when you see me?
Am I only this lock of matted hair
upon my nose?
But I am so much more;
if only you would open your eyes
and look.
These wrinkled folds of skin
hold ancient secrets of this land;
of those who walked before
and how it came to be.
The dust of the Kalahari,
the sand of the Sahara,
even the seeds of the acacia tree
and drops of great Savannah rain,
all live within
these wrinkled folds of skin.
The Congo
and the Nile
flow from each eye;
these eyes hold memories
of this land
where my family,
once in plenty
and in multitudes,
roamed wild,
and in peace –
before you came,
o stranger-with-a-gun.

I should like to come back as me
in my next life
and the life after that.
But for that,
you have to let me live.
and thrive
and just be.

What will you tell your children,
o stranger-with-a-gun,
when I am gone?
Will you build monuments in my likeness
and name parks after me?
You cannot grind my bones for bread
or use my hide for designer shoes,
and bags.
You cannot drink my blood
and yet you spill it,
o stranger-with-a-gun.

I am not scared of you,
you know.
I am scared for you.
Your scarring,
killing ways
will one day,
swallow you whole.

Kill me now,
for I know that
that is what you intend to do.
You are not stronger than me;
Simply blood-thirsty
and greedy.

I just know,
that in my next life,
I would like to be me again.
I should like to return
and again
and again
until the last gunshot
has felled me to the ground.

But imagine,
o stranger-with-a-gun,
if in my next life,
I should come back as you…


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