Sex lies at the root of life, and we can never learn to reverence life until we know how to understand sex.
~Henry Havelock Ellis (2nd February 1859–8th July 1939)
Human Sexuality is a subject that is tightly wound up with hushed whispers and deadly silence, often resorting to hunting us back with physical or verbal violence. India is still ways behind when it comes to accepting sexuality and the implications of proper sex education at the school level.
Sexuality refers to the sexual interests of an individual, the way he or she experiences and expresses themselves. It is one…
The U.S. celebrates February as Black History Month and one of the prominent prospects of African-American history, i.e. Jazz Poetry; poetry that mirrors jazz-like rhythm or feels of improvisation, i.e. the jazz milieu. Initially conceived in the 1920s as a voice of acceptance, racial pride and expression of individualism, the 1950s oversaw the focus shift towards spontaneity, freedom of expression, while in the 1960s the idea of jazz poetry as a source of black pride was further propagated.
Langston Hughes, a hero of the black race in every sense, is the original jazz poet; a literary prodigy and one of…
Countless roads and ceaseless boundaries lead to an alley;
Evading demons that lurk deep within;
Scathing the measly bit of light in the corner.
A lone kid huddled up, hungry for love.
Words cut sharper than shards.
All those regrets, words unsaid, tears unshed, scars left to hurt.
The murky heart satiates their hunger, spiritual prowess fueled by feelings bottled up.
The only truths that exist are his voiceless stutters and endless sobs, his only salvation.
A pink envelope balanced perfectly atop his PC, a bunch of yellow and blue tulips in a hand-painted vase by the table clock, and a brand new leather bag. This was the scene that welcomed Parikshit home. He couldn’t help but smile. They have known each other for 25 years. But she never ceased to surprise him. Placed inside the envelope was a small note that read in simple words.
Happy Birthday, Parik. I wish you success for all your present and upcoming endeavours. May you find happiness in the simplest of things and mature well like wine. Freshen up…
You’re my honeybunch, sugarplum, pumpy-umpy-umpkin, you’re my sweetie pie.
You’re my cuppy cake, gumdrop, snookums-snookums, you’re the apple of my eye.
And I love you so, and I want you to know, That I’ll always be right here.
And I love to sing sweet songs for you,
You are so D-E-E-R, deer.
That was Shruti’s version of the cuppy cake song. We had to spell out the word deer. She stuck to the fact that she had no ‘dear’. Her obsessions breezed past frequently. That was one of them. I remember the girl who always sat by the window…
The evening news channels have been going berserk over the video of a 47-year-old woman, Monee Sreekanth. She was blabbering, sobbing and cradling her mutilated dead husband.
Tonmoy messaged Mansi, “Hey, remember the nice travel agency lady we met during our trip to Uttarakhand years ago? She committed murder. Just switch on the TV. It’s all over the news.”
The gruesome images and the video flashing on-screen made no sense. Looks can be deceiving. The video exhibited bestiality at its prime.
How could she do it? She appeared to be such a kind-hearted woman!
She was intelligent and had a…
The huge billboard was a beautiful mother and child poster, captioned: We understand your desire to be a Mother.
Swati was visibly nervous and sweating profusely. The stark contrast between the sweltering heat of the midday July sun and the coolness gusting through the sliding doors, made her subconsciously pace up the stairs leading to the clinic.
Last year, her best friend Mansi had become a blissful mother to triplets. She was all high praises for the staff and doctor in charge; even declared them as miracle workers.
Three years into their marriage, Swati and Abhay had mutually decided to…
A simple request and promised surprise. Varun knew quite well that Shalini was game. “Try to solve this. Each face must have only one colour. You are not allowed to look at how-to videos rampant all over the internet.”
The six-faced puzzle bubbled feelings of desperation and anger in her. She could gather only two out of those six colours. Her prior attempts did no justice. This was no easy task. There had to be a secret trick to it. Exasperated and exhausted, she kept it aside and went to grab a cup of coffee. But her mind felt no…
It was 1990, the CERN Hardronic Festival; a young 3-D graphic designer, Michele de Gennaro, debuted on stage with her song Collider; a parody, speaking of her lonely romantic relationship with a physicist. The pop comic band, Les Horribles Cernettes, subsequently emerged with Angela Higney, Michele de Gennaro, Colette Marx-Neilsen and Lynn Veronneau. As the name Cernettes suggested, all of them were CERN employees. The band came about, with the help of their manager and lyricist, Silvano de Gennaro; also an IT developer at CERN (the Europen Organisation for Nuclear Research; based in Geneva, Switzerland).
The 1922 Hardronic event marked…
Joy felt the aching heat. His neat lavender bow tie stifled his neck, instinctively making him gulp down the air. The beige tuxedo shirt, every crease and plait ironed to crisps, smelled of mild mint fabric softener. The shoes, formal as they come, the ones you put on for a special occasion.
Yes, today is special; special enough for custom made, white, hand-stitched brogues, and a light blue suit to match his bow tie. Special enough for him to lie back on a chair and have someone prod and prong every inch of his face and hair, in the name…
Writer| Mechanical Engineer| Content Creator at www.colourfulingrey.com| Writing expresses my inner embedded code. It is a portrait of words spun with ink.