The Celtic God Dagda

This blog has been lying inactive for the past 5 months, much like a ninja lying in wait in the decrepit shadows for his victim to arrive, but then lighting up a joint and going into an unwanted hibernation period for the aforementioned amount of days.

To stir things up, I have decided to upload a series of write-ups that I wrote in conjunction with a fellow batchmate, Manu ‘Sloth’ Sahay, for a Creative Writing competition conducted by St. Xavier’s College as a part of their college fest- Malhar. There are, in total, 4 of such write ups (the 5th one was written in the final event on a piece of paper, which, much to our chagrin, wasn’t returned to us, apparently because they were running out of toilet paper rapidly with too many people being unable to digest the overpriced momos) which I shall upload one by one every week, so that this blog gets its share of da bootiezzz.

First up, the format. They gave us a list of mythological Gods/Goddesses/characters to choose from. After poring over the list and googling each name up, we stuck with The Dagda, the meanest badass mudafuckah out of the lot. A brief bio out of Wikipedia:-

Tales depict the Dagda as a figure of immense power, armed with a magic club and associated with a cauldron. The club was supposed to be able to kill nine men with one blow; but with the handle he could return the slain to life. The cauldron was known as the Undry and was said to be bottomless, from which no man left unsatisfied. Uaithne, also known as “the Four Angled Music”, was a richly ornamented magic harp made of oak which, when the Dagda played it, put the seasons in their correct order; other accounts tell of it being used to command the order of battle. He possessed two pigs, one of which was always growing whilst the other was always roasting, and ever-laden fruit trees. Despite his great power and prestige, the Dagda is sometimes depicted as oafish and crude, even comical, wearing a short, rough tunic that barely covers his rump, dragging his great hairy balls on the ground.

Tarrying no further, I present to you,


The room stank a little of putrid, partially-digested goat as the Dagda finished yawning, chewing the remnants stuck between his teeth in a dazed fashion. Stretching luxuriously, he reached for his Club of Strength. The Dagda arose, and scratching His divine derrière made way for the plank jutting out of his bedroom, from where he performed his ablutions, drenching a wee little horse in the valley below which didn’t know what blessed him.
The huge stomach rumbled. It was time for the Dagda’s drink, sweet goat’s milk which Erheun, the local goatherd, must have delivered at his doorstep. The Dagda sauntered to the door of his drawing room and pulled it open. He glanced down and furrowed his eyes, astonished.
There on the doorstep lay the most beautiful baby girl in the world, flailing its tiny limbs, almost the size of a delicious otter. The Dagda bent down, pulling his tunic down to hide his privates as the baby looked up at him. He picked up the note lying beside.
“She’s all yours now, you sick, lying, two-faced cheat!”
The Dagda turned the paper around looking for a signature. Finding none, He stooped down and picked the baby, cradling her within His arms. The baby gave him an admonishing look, its tiny eyes watery, and then-
“Uh oh…”
The Dagda staggered from the impact, the shrill cry penetrating his eardrums. Looking around wildly, his gaze fell upon the harp lying on the rugged carpet.
Dashing towards it, he held the baby in one hand while he strummed the strings with the other, the club falling with a resounding thud beside. The Music of Dreaming emanated euphoniously, while outside, the seasons started to change. Village dwellers looked up perturbed as clouds materialised and it began snowing. Then they looked up at Dagda’s house up on the hillock.
Meanwhile the bawling showed no signs of abating. The Dagda was running out of ideas. His ears throbbed with pain. It was becoming unbearable.
“Shut up!”
And before he knew it, he dropped the baby to the floor, grabbed his club and in a towering fit of rage, brought it down. There was a sickening thud, and crimson leapt everywhere.
The Dagda swerved around. The villagers stared at him aghast.
“Ohh…eh…hehehe…just testing the Handle…you see.” The Dagda, gave a shifty grin, and touched the baby with the opposite end of his club, wincing as the wailing resumed.
With the villagers gone, he turned back to the problem at hand, when a brainwave assailed him.
He mumbled a spell, the same one he had used when the wife of Elcmir begot him a son on the same day they both had intercourse. Sixteen years passed in a matter of seconds.
He opened his eyes to find a beautiful damsel in front of him, who glanced below his tunic coquettishly. The Dagda’s eyes glinted mischievously.
“Awww honey,” He said, “Come to Daddy!”


5 thoughts on “The Celtic God Dagda

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