Maa…. While I Was Alone!





They were a bunch of familiar faces

Cultured and credible [supposedly]

Yet, well stocked with disguised lust

That you and I could never easily discern!

And then one day

They savored my tender flesh

Gratifying their insatiable ‘sexual appetite/urge

And look what they did to me

While you were away!


That ‘amiable uncle’

Snuggled me into his arms

Coaxed me to let him use his two hands

All over me

While I was alone!



That ‘cordial man’

I fondly called my teacher

One day brazenly set out

To intrude my body parts

While I was alone!


That well disposed

‘Hospitable neighbor’ enticed me

Grabbed me with full force

To fulfill his profound craving

For a slice of me

While I was alone!


That ‘doting cousin’

Fondled with his organs

Sneaking his unsettling fingers

Under my clothes and

Groped me for a moment of delight

Without a peck of hesitation

While I was alone!


Even the ‘man’

Whose blood runs through my anatomy

The one I proudly called ‘papa

Derived pleasure out of my youthful frame

While I was alone!

  And yes

     I did utter a yelp

But in no time my shrieks

Dwindled into whimpers

Before ‘they’ devoured me

Like a luscious morsel

Of course, abandoning the ‘left over’

Just to writhe in pain

And dwell in sullen silence


It really hurts!


I wish you hadn’t left me alone

If your observant eye

Could rescue me before the brutal invasion


My predators are all over

And perhaps

Your womb was the only safest haven!


Until Another ASIFA




They were shamelessly resolute

To teach my tribe a lesson

So they set their hungry gaze on me

Waiting for that opportune slot of the day

And then they seized me

While I was all alone


My horses returned to their sojourn

But I lay motionless

Like a sumptuous piece of a wild hunt

On that land they call pious!

They savored me scrupulously

For days together

Relishing every bit of my eight year old anatomy

Even when the last gulp of air had skipped

Out of my frail lungs


Now, that I have left your brutal world

My soul is savaged forever!

But for the time being

You may conveniently exhibit

A sea of outcry

Condemn, protest, paint posters,

Fast unto death, alter the law

Color it communal

Or shake your collective conscience

By turning your display profiles all black


By the way

I was an ordinary girl

Not your beloved daughter or sister!

So let the public outrage over my inflictions

Soar, simmer and submerge

Into hollow assurances

Hefty compensations and

Years of a painstaking judicial journey!


Please carry on the euphoria

Until another Asifa surfaces

Adds to the existing statistics

And your heads hang in shame once again!


Sometimes [You & Me]



I look for those eyes

To look at me

With the sea of warmth



I crave for those words

Words that could sparkle my soul



I look for those hands

Hands that wish to hold me through



I look for that promise

A promise that is togetherness


And in all these sometimes

I look for a lost part of me

A part that is my world

A world that is you

In everything that is

I look for you!

An Ode To The City That Shaped Me: SHIMLA

Image result for images of shimla


There is something infectious about this hill town.

The craving to come back here has escalated remarkably with each passing year. Thankfully, the period of deprivation and constant yearning ceases with the arrival of summers. The soul instantly rejuvenates amidst the healing deodars and the calming breeze, the steep slopes and the meandering alleys. It finds solace even in the clusters of haphazardly built homes and the traffic chaos, the crowded roads and the flood of tourists. Yes it does!

My yearly summer sojourn in Shimla is a stress reliever and reminiscent of the days that have shaped me into what I am today.

The other day, as I watched a bunch of school children with visibly heavy bags on their backs, climbing the narrow alley uphill and with hardly any sign of exhaustion on their faces,  it took me back into time when I carried more or less the same expression without a complaint.

We had a school routine that stretched beyond the normal hours of the day and homecoming, entirely at the mercy of weather gods and the obsolete Himachal Roadways school bus. Notwithstanding the fact that the after school hours were mostly deficient of the evening play and largely devoid of recreational space and the left over energy squeezed by the never ending home works; I can’t recall cribbing being part of the hills.

The way life sculptured in this hill town was in fact a reward in terms of ‘simplicity of existence’. The less was more indeed. Our initial two room rented accommodation was our abode for a long time. I grew from a child to a teenager in that little space with all the big dreams.

It amuses me even more, as I recall those times when commuting was a struggle in itself.  It used to be a long wait for the local buses and securing a seat in the overcrowded sole public transport then, was an achievement in itself.

Life wasn’t all plain sailing, yet it was far more uncomplicated and desirable.  The compensation lay in the little gratifications.

A stroll on the Mall road, a horse ride on the Ridge, a visit to my favorite pastry shop, and coming back with a mandatory cone of vanilla ice cream in one hand and an eye on that irresistible yet out of reach expensive dress in one corner of the famous showroom opposite Gaiety theatre, made for those priceless childhood memories.

The weather in Shimla was one significant aspect that altered our moods and choices turning it pretty much mundane; a perfect example of which was the three month long boring winter vacations that made us visibly entertainment starved. Social media and television expansion was yet to take off, so life was at the mercy of Doordarshan and the Hindi film video cassettes that we occasionally hired to elevate our bored senses. We probably were the few enthusiasts who willfully bribed our wilted hearts at that time with the condolence that ‘a bag full of excitement was waiting at the onset of spring’ as we waited in anticipation for the new school session to begin. Ironically, that is what I miss terribly today. A time when aimless conversations and sticking around each other mattered over fingers on gadgets.

The fact that these extended holidays coincided with a spell of heavy snowfall, candle light dinners and candle light conversations inevitably became part of the ‘nothing else to do routine’, courtesy the state electricity department. Probably I can’t forgive them for making our lives- the habitats of the frozen city, utterly unappealing and uninteresting in those days.

For that matter, the rains in Shimla have a knack of cheering me up even now, when I am miles away. Although, usually the clouds here relieve themselves with full force, nonetheless its mystical, refreshing and has the power to generate a plethora of emotions.  It triggers nostalgia and memories cascade when friends post pictures of the monsoon laden city. The dense fog crawling gradually over the hills and every bit of the city drenched in vibrant hues post the life disrupting rains, exudes a raw charm that once uplifted our spirits despite the disarray it brought with it.

Once a calm and serene abode, Shimla has certainly metamorphosed into a set of unplanned & muddled structures taking away the sheen off its pristine beauty, however, the peace it still offers is unmatched.

Growing up in this small quaint hill town (although now it’s no more a small town) was a gift and a privilege, the realization of which dawned quite late in life. And sometimes I ponder, what if I was born in this age of life saving gadgets and the new found luxuries? What if I could escape all the dull moments then?   But if that would have been the case, I wouldn’t  have probably emerged a more accommodating and a tougher being.

I actually learnt my lessons in survival in every possible way; in the scarcity of amenities, in the exhaustion of climbing slopes, in the endless wait for buses, in the wintry discomfort, in the disrupting rains and in the absence of resources.

I am a proud product of the hills and my strength and perseverance for life has a lot to do with my spare parts being greased with the dis pleasures and hardships of life here. Yes, it made a big difference.

I AM A MAN: No Rules for me !

He is 40, married and father to two young daughters. He comes home drunk, picks up an argument with his wife, beats her mercilessly with a wooden stick throughout the night, smashes her head against the wall until she starts bleeding profusely, refuses to give her food or water for 12 hours, she faints, injects her nearly lifeless body with painkillers, and when the torture eventually ceased    her breath, he slashes her head with a saw, plans to slaughter her into pieces and meticulously contrives to dispose her dissected body parts at different locations.


This is a hideous tale of a man living in the suburbs of Delhi, a plumber by profession, who chose to teach a lesson to his wife in the most horrendous manner, just because he suspected infidelity.

Oh! Hold on. I just forgot to add something here. This very self righteous, bigoted monstrous already had a second wife and a baby girl from her and very blatantly let her stay with the one she butchered in his fit of madness and inflated ego.

Being a willful husband to two wives simultaneously, he rebuffed her first wife’s ranting, had the audacity to question her if she had an extra marital affair or eyed some other man, and without a trace of humanity executed her. This to me is one of the most gruesome murders in the recent past.

Yes, we have such obnoxious men in growing numbers who exercise their supremacy with complete assertion;  flaunting their ‘male tag’ with an irrefutable authority and a non essential permission to evaluate, judge and pass on the severest of punishment to a woman who dares to voice her suppression and injustice. By the way, who is she to them? Nothing more but a commodity, use and then throw if not required.

They are merely selected, chosen, secured and then acquired to manage kitchens, cater to the families, produce future generations, bow down, keep shut, obey and provide consistent pleasures on bed. And dare she raise an eyebrow or escalate her pitch.

The nasty vultures are ready to wreak vengeance in every possible way.  It’s a choice with them, whether to grill, scare, degrade, hit, burn, or chop her. Only to remind her of her origin, her feeble identity, her duties, her sole aim.

They are bloody just women, a piece of flesh. All they have is a vagina and a pair of breasts. Serve the purpose and stay zipped. What else?

There are no equals when a man is the provider and the so called protector. He is born to dictate and make rules. He is not here to follow them.

He can own one, two or three wives or even more than that. He can relish numerous women, flirt, rape, or murder. However, the bloody, dependent, incapacitated, good for nothing woman has no reason to point a finger or question her husband, her almighty.

In case you thought this is a one of its kind example and what have you got to do with it, let me give you an insight into the alarming figures from the National Crime Records Bureau.

To simplify the data clearly states that by 2013, over 848 women were harassed, raped, abducted or killed every single day in this country. The figures have only scaled since. And the place I call home, Delhi, has become the epicenter of crimes against women.


For the judiciary, Subodh Kumar, the culprit in the above mentioned case, will be just another offender. And for the society, one more addition to the list of men who by default are cocksure of their superior gender and consider it their birth right to handle the woman in their own ways.

I understand, by now we are accustomed to such horrific, heart wrenching atrocities on women and it may not shake our conscience. But the woman, the wife and the mother in me is deeply unsettled inside, at the way the mother of two was hacked to death three days ago in the capital.

And much more agitated at the ‘pause to endure beyond a point’ , kind of rearing we fail to offer to our daughters.

Why don’t we raise our girls to respond to every affliction, every disregard with a strong opposition? Why the hell most of them are still educated to stick to their pati parmeshwars’ and be exemplary in their attempts to be stable homemakers even in the worst of situations? What is the need for that uninstructed command to keep their reservoir of pain hidden? Why do we want them to suffer in silence? Only to be chopped into pieces at the hands of an utterly insensitive man?

I guess we still busy breeding a generation with perverted notions and bigger egos, waiting for more daughters to go through the same fate.

WINTER, SNOW & NO FUN! Childhood memories of the once dark& dull winter holidays

The generosity of the weather gods draping my hometown Shimla, drop dead gorgeous in a pristine white blanket of snow, with nearly life crippling situation and a spell of darkness over the last weekend, took me back into time when a similar dose of climate chaos had upset our already mundane lives.

The scene was set against the backdrop of a heavily snow clad small hill town. It was 1992 then. The winters were gearing up for a small mention in the pages of history. The month of January had arrived, the temperatures had dipped remarkably low and the records were in the making. Life in the queen of hills was about to come to a standstill.


At around 10 am on an icy cold lazy morning, when I woke up to untouched, luminescent white surroundings, I knew well, that the weather forecast had been more than true. It hadn’t snowed like this before in the past few years.

The winters had arrived with a bang and life had taken a back seat. The tall and shady devdaars bended helplessly, over burdened with piles of frozen snowflakes, the slanting tin roofs adorned the heavily laden mattresses of snow, and the roads were covered with nature’s immaculately designed white carpet and a few footprints. All mute witnesses to the one time stimulating yet, dreary part of the long school winter holidays.

Everything seemed unappealing and utterly uninspiring; post that initial excitement of the first heavy snowfall of the season. There was snow, snow and only snow as far as my eyes could see. The aftermath soon followed.

Candle light dinners, candle light conversations, candle light games, in fact, life was at the mercy of this cylindrical utility in wax. There was no power supply for over a week.

My working mother  was stranded at home, catering to me and my younger sibling’s ‘nothing else to do’ routine, while every single day my father would walk for nearly two hours to cover a distance of about six kilometres to reach his office. With no snow cutters and public transport almost negligible, there was hardly any choice left.

The day’s time table didn’t stretch far beyond eating and sleeping in our two bedroom rented top floor, we called home. Or else we creatively indulged in our favourite outdoor sport of making snow balls of all sizes, in an attempt to hit each other as hard as possible. Although every now and then waiting endlessly in vain, gazing at the tube light to sparkle  and surprise us.

To rest was the best. For that matter, taking a regular bath was conveniently avoided. And by the way, heading to the loo was another tough task to handle, so was obtaining water for the same. The water pipes had jammed and a chunk of ice was melted time and again over the gas burner in our dimly lit kitchen, to attend to the nature’s call.


No heaters to warm up, no geysers for hot water, and more importantly no television.  Please spare a moment to imagine, how deeply uninteresting life could  turn in those  months of long winter vacations, when there was nothing more to elevate our bored senses, except a weekly Chitrhaar, and a weekly movie on Doordardarshan- the then sole source of entertainment, and that too was completely out of question, courtesy the state electricity department . The Hindi film video cassettes that we hired occasionally, for a day, were also inaccessible.

How many snowmen could we make? How many books could we read, how many forced afternoon naps could we take or how many dull moments could we embrace? Without any close friends, cousins or an extended family around, I and my younger brother were entertainment starved.

The ‘period of deprivation’ was hard indeed.

And eventually, after more than a week’s torture, when the bulbs and tube lights suddenly dwindled and illuminated our bedroom, I was visibly ecstatic. I had indeed, found God.

Life was back on track and having access to television again, was a blessing, more than anything else.

Well, for a bunch of enthusiastic tourists, it is usually euphoric, whose trip to the hills is successful, once they can jump, play, and revel in the snow. However, for us, the inhabitants of the frozen city, it was a box full of complaints against the wintry discomfort and the administrative set up.

The situation had turned up somewhat similar this time too, however, there was no dearth of pictures, updates, and emotions sailing through the internet in wake of abundance of snow after so long. Sometimes I think what If I was born in this age of life saving gadgets? What if I could escape all the dull moments then? But how would I have learned the lessons in survival. And nonetheless, in all the displeasures and hardships of a life in the hills, I think I have emerged a more accommodating and a more tougher being.

REMEMBERING THE LEGEND….. Om Puri through ‘Jaane Bhi Do Yaaron’

Mr. Ahuja, a middle aged drunk dumb head conniving builder in hope of a plump construction deal with his wit and captivating demeanour  in ‘Jane Bhi Do Yaaron’,  was a character that lay engraved in my memory for his exceptional comic timing and  dialogue delivery. Om Puri and Naseerudin Shah had become favourites and actors whom I looked up with great respect vis-à-vis the frontrunners of the commercial films.


This was a film etched in my mind for its impeccable combination of humour and realism. The pragmatic satire had brought together legends of parallel cinema and a masterpiece was created.

One of the pioneers of realism in Indian cinema, today, Om Puri has embarked on a different journey altogether, creating a void in the Indian cinematic arena. His acting prowess and the sheer magic of his husky and impressionable voice has been a treasure of sorts for the Indian film industry.

His electrifying on screen presence in Jane Bhi Do Yaaron was the reason I had been waiting impatiently to watch him and others in the theatre for the first time.

Recently, I was fortunate enough to encounter this rib tickling humorous treat by the stalwarts of the art cinema once again. It was an opportunity I didn’t want to miss at any cost. Being an avid movie buff, I grabbed the tickets available to experience the extra ordinary classic comedy of the 80’s on the big screen.  ‘Jane Bhi do Yaaron’ is one such movie I always wanted my children to watch and have a taste of the acting genius of our times.

This evergreen cult film had left a remarkable impression on me as a child and it was no less than a laughter ride every time it appeared on television. I remember being fed generously on the kind of cinema Om Puri and his likes were part of.  Although as a child, none of my peers had that kind of art films exposure.  Thanks to my father, a writer and a cinema lover, his unconscious efforts were detrimental in shaping my intellectual persona, and had unknowingly, culminated into a tremendous fondness for films with a deep insight into the pathos and psyches of the common Indian.

The legend Om Puri had a number of stellar performances in his acting career; however, his outstanding and utterly hilarious portrayal in Jane Bhi Do Yaron was a character I could not erase from my memory. It is a difficult task to pick one favourite scene.

Waiting for a movie I had already seen was indeed a delight once again; with my children showering praises and laughing their hearts out the same way. The way I burst into laughter decade’s back, my children, equally enjoyed the charisma of this cult movie. The characters and the infamous dialogues were still afresh and I could easily recall a number of them.

His sudden and shocking demise yesterday, leaves me with a very unpleasant feeling.  We have lost yet another acting genius, who had made his mark as an actor with unconventional looks and a strong throw of voice. His choice of films and his versatility of characters put him into the category of one of India’s finest actors ever.

Nonetheless, we will continue to cherish his films as much we applaud the actor in him.