Who has to save the girl?

Navigation between pages has always been one of my preferred topics and same was true for today. Nevertheless, for a person like me it was today not a favourite, but one disheartening thing to do. I somehow slipped up on a video shared by certain page which was linked up to a recent incident that took place at Kaaw Mohalla, Khanyar on the eve of Eid-UL-Zuha. One unfortunate incident which too will drop dead in the law books against a thirst for justice and ultimately will result in one futile exercise of hope.


Well, a point here is that what make me write today after a long pause about such incident? I have already written numerous articles about the society’s evils and this too is no exception to them. So, for today what is it that made me once again pour my agony in these scripted lines. It is nothing except the “False show of humanity” that irked me of that video. The journalist is asking a lady who has lost her daughter in one of the heart scissoring incidents, “Tueh paeyth kya chuw mouj waeynken baitaan? (Mother, what is right now happening to you?) , Tueh kya chuw gasaan weayn kenas? (What is happening to you right now?), Tueh kya chuw basaan? (What do you feel about it?) and so on. Come on, Mr. Journalist first you call her mother then you ask her about how she feels of an incident of losing a daughter to the flames of inhumane society? How will you feel when, God forbid, your sister/female parent/daughter will ash down to dust and someone will build a story on how you feel right now about it? Even in a wildest of an imagination of such tragedy will send shivers down the spine. What sort of journalism is this? Disgusting! This is no new narrative, no new crime, ample number of such crimes take place each day, each hour, each second. Forget about getting a space in local dailies they don’t even get a person to mourn. They rest like never existing creatures in the earth full of sorrow.

Hah! This video actually played so bad that I found no better option other than stopping it there and the first 17 seconds have frozen in me. They are pain to watch. Doubtless, this video must have been made to show inhumanity, but while brings down the curtains of shame the discipline of journalism lost its own to “Fake sympathy”.

Offense is constantly clear. It is we who have blindfolded the eyes, it is we who feed it, it is we who actually nourish it and it is we who finally complain about it. It is the S.O.C.I.E.T.Y… even words don’t suit to be merged. Such tragedy!

Let me ask you a few simple questions,

How many times you have uttered when something improper is going on, even in your family or in the neighbourhood or in area around?

Have you ever done anything apart from being a mute spectator? Or being a person who watches and discusses do’s and do not’s at back?

In case you have done your bit, how well your family has supported it?

How many times you have reported wrong? Ever? Or just never?

There are so many questions and so less of an expectance of any right. Change is not one day march that we will shout and the next day it will be served. It is a struggle. It is a freedom from doomed ideology. It is a fire to orthodox ideas, cultural burdens, and above all the light into a deep lesion. To get it, we need to starve for it, else this article is only a burden to trash. In simpler words it is not about “who, when and how will save the girl”, instead it is all about “I will save the girl”.

To the fire

I did surrender myself.

Call it destiny or social iniquity,

But for now,

“I am free”.

No curse, No impudence.

Keep blaming each other

By then I shall return in womb another

I know, all over again,

Everything would be same

Faces will change

While crime will have new name.


P.S: The link to video is here  https://www.facebook.com/umaan/videos/10205806342692161/



The veil that kept hanging between two,

Burnt on just one sight.

To dust it was lost forever,

While in an inward eye-

droplets still float to extinguish the fire.

Running through hurricane of the feelings,

A voice broke in a clumsy fashion!

“Neither an inheritance of love it was,

 Nor it belonged to a fashion of modern living?

 Then why I believe you to be a dearest,

 But find you far from even being a friend?”


Watching a step of mine tendering backward,

Like the last seasonal snow snuggling in the soil.

Exerting hard to scroll up a voice from the chest,

“Harshly I can’t even think of sharing a word,

Swiftly, like an autumn struck leaf falling to the ground-

 Such choice has been nailed out far before,

To questions:

  I would have shared desserts for calming you,

       and explaining true,

But the choice is none!

For answers I can just be lulled and share a comfort,

For I know to both we are the dearest and I bet that is so true.”




“The Divine Call”

In the heaven-
A song of welcome was sung,
The choir was loud-
A youthful face was a guest.

The fairies, the birds and the flowers,
Dancing, singing and tossing their heads,
Waiting for a blossom from paradise’s chest,
Cheerful, colourful and the sparkling eyes,
Fate of which the angel of death did declare-
Hearts skip a beat and faces turned dull,

Some crying-
“How can it be a farewell?
How can it be for an eternity?”

Some murmuring-
“It was an end of her dream, And
A step into the real world now.”

Some silent –
“Addressing the self,
Consoling the fear within.”

And all –
Trying to believe,

The Allah’s delivered truth –
“Yesterday, it was a tragedy
Today, it was a farewell
Tomorrow, it is a belief
And memory now forever.”



Etiquettes! What’s that?

The cold wave appeared more intensified and the warm vapours were rushing out of the mouth as if they were in a hurry to slip up into the sky and add a little warmth to the air. Each bit of a moment was adding to the beautification of our university, the University of Kashmir. The seven storey huge building, the Allama Iqbal Library, from the gate appeared as if being packed in the mist. O’ that beauty. The sun was all stuck in the clouds and they certainly were not interested to let it shine today. As the day progressed the cold wave too did escalate but I didn’t feel much of the dipping temperature. Ah! How could I forget? I was going to meet a friend after some five of more years and this was filling my soul with the warmth of the love. Thus, it was enough to stand against the odds of the temperature.

It was afternoon, by then I had finished all my work and she called. The cell rang in its old melodious tune though this time I was too curiously waiting to hear it. I picked the call without a lapse of a minute and inquired where she will be meeting me. So, the lawn of the MCA department, Kashmir University turned out to be a venue. Woah! I am meeting my friend. I was excited. Back in my head I was thinking about her reaction, chalking out how and what we will talk after such a long time. Well! As I was walking towards the venue each step was driving me to the memorable moments we have spent during our school days and in no time I reached there. I wasn’t able to figure her out. She had a muffler over her face letting only her eyes visible. Just like the way she used to do in our school days. Oh! I can’t forget she was too very particular about, “prevention is better than cure”? Ahaan! (I whispered to myself) She is there. She took steps to me, we hugged crazily. Hey! Finally we met after the teenage in the youth. This was obvious.

Before we could deeply get into the conversation we stood near a tree. Forgetting the rest of the world does exist too. I like all time lazy placed my bag on the bonnet of the car. Well! Being no shy to say I never liked carrying it. Now, we were in conversation talking about things that were hitting the tongue first and the mind on the other moment. I believe friendship is all about speaking without thinking. Once you think before speaking, the person can’t be your friend. Anyway, the time was in a hurry as if riding on the cheetah, you know it happens, and a ball from nowhere hit my arm. For a moment I was like a stone has been hurled by someone with all the force and that hit me but I still couldn’t peg what exactly happened. I turned around and saw a boy approaching, I didn’t have a complete look over him. Urgh! I was pressing my arm in pain. I wasn’t at all astonished that a ball hit me but the moment he said, “Oye meinai O kaha tunai nai suna (I did “O”  you just didn’t listen)”, that arrogance which was palpitating on his tongue and the disrespectful tone is something I can’t stand. For a moment I stood stuck without a word. Somewhere I was going against my own words, “Girl you need to be strong”. I questioned myself, “How on the earth I gave him authority to disrespect me? This of course isn’t me”. I forgot I had a historic meeting with an old chum of mine. I forgot that anyone is around, I passed the lawn. Listen! Yes you. Next time when your ball aims to a person don’t forget bothering your tongue and speak up a sorry and instead of the lower town language better yell, “excuse me”. He replied, “Oye theek hai” moving his body left to right and right to left as if he was a B-boying. That made me quite sure why he is not  good  at speech for a reason he couldn’t balance his body which obviously clears that his head wasn’t also in a balanced state. “Oye” is a word which is most disrespectful to me and I wasn’t ready to leave the place before making him say, “Aap”.

“Speak to me in a most respectable manner and while speaking make sure you keep distance”, I said.

The scene turned more panic to others when he started heading to me as if he was all up to charge me. Well! I wasn’t afraid though I knew he will not give even a second thought while slapping me. Such were his etiquettes. He appeared no less than a frustrated student who had missed his all moral science classes during the school days and he proved that when some boys were trying to take him away and he wasn’t ready to move off or just give away courtesy a space and bother to say sorry. There in other boys appeared and asked for the same. I left the place made a point by my presence, “To tolerate nonsense is to offer someone a space to disrespect you”. Surely! I will never let someone point a finger at me.

Being hit by a ball doesn’t matter. We do sometimes even at home get injured even more badly than this but then there is point of courtesy, the nature of proving the wealthy etiquettes taught back at home by parents and teachers at school. What more right time than using them at a place when they are demanded but he miserably was lacking them.

My point of sharing this was to make it clear that today it was me and I stood up demanding a respect for tomorrow you never know. Why get hit and turn mute, then hear a low language against yourself instead of an apology, take an injury home and then complain boys are bad? No! They aren’t bad but it is just that some are and your inability to speak up against that number give away a freedom to them and offer them luxury to make their own mythological rules.

The strength isn’t always about power in arms, 

But the courage you have, to stand against the odds.



“Dolesome Voice”

The bride left with no colours

Habilimented in the velvety white.

Close to the nature,

Relinquished by the crowd.

Youthful! Yet too tired,

Not of the dead cells but of the silence around.

Alone strengthening the voice,

To be heard and accompanied by someone nice.

Riding into the forest of no notes,

Searching the owner of the old ragged boots.

Smell of the skin and arch of feet,

Still same since the moment they were tamed.

In remembrance of the soul,

That smuggled into the last winter snow.

Leaving behind an impression of the hope,

Guiding an unknown to the path lone.

Like the waves reverberating from the river behind,

She believes one day sound may travel to her life.

Dolesome voice



Evening on the Porch.

It was the evening, the sprinkle of droplets started, the smoke which was rising from the neighbour’s house was losing the thickness and power of escaping, and our very old pomegranate trees were shedding leaves in a welcome of the winter, a tribute to the autumn and a company to the rain. I was standing at the door of the back porch waiting for the tea and admiring a beauty around. The outside cold gentle currents of the wind had already turned me impatient to have the sip of the Noon Chai, the traditional Kashmiri tea, or call it the Salt Tea in the English attire.

I was still waiting for the vapours to take off from the teapot and condense over the ceiling when the three little kittens with their mother joined me on the porch. I rolled a ball towards them and waited for the response but all in vain. They were in plan to have some rest. On noticing the three young ones I was in too jiffy to make a response. Mama, “Out of the three the one with golden patches is awfully beautiful”.  Before my mother could have replied the dark kitten sat in front of her mother as if she did understand me and wanted to teach me a lesson about beauty. While the young ones were making the storyline I was handed over a cup of tea.

First sip, the tea just changed the sense of climate and the warmth already starts gripping within. The mother cat had by now placed her hand on the head of the little black one, started licking his head, and cuddled him. While she was busy showering the love, the second one joined. She again did the same. Seeing this, the third one, whom I praised for the beauty, too joined to share motherly love. She lifted her left arm quite gently raised it above all three, placed it over them, started licking their heads & patted them one by one, as per their respective turns. This nudged me. Wasn’t I praising one? But to the mother they all are one irrespective of their beauty. And love isn’t the believer of difference it is a stand for the unity. I got a lesson to never guide a line of mark praising the beauty, instead speak of it unanimously.

This abundance of love reminded me of the message that I few days back had written for my friend whom I love unconditionally and it goes like this:

“I have no idea about love. I don’t know what actually it sounds like. I don’t know the feeling of being into it. People say love for our creator is reality. Then same people say love for parents is unmatched. They further confuse me with love for a partner and thus they keep bringing on the definition of love for different identities and this way love turns more about individuality instead of being unified.”

This text I couldn’t stop relating to the scene of minutes. Where’s my message of questioning the individuality of the love was being beautifully explained on the basis reality of the unity. Furthermore, the classification of the love on the basis of who we love stand dismissed.

An evening on the porch



“O’ My Beloved Grandma”

The colour of my walls is yet to fade,

Your sweat is still condensing by,

It makes me feel your presence this night.

The glare in your eyes,

The promise to support every time,

At their youthful age all that died.

And alone in this crazy world,

You left me to think of life.

Though I do live, I do smile,

Many a times I do forget,

You aren’t anymore among the alive.

Just to let you believe,

I am the brave girl whom you knew,

With you, who used to sleep.

Today I leaned back on my couch,

Your last words and the blessing of no count,

Where blooming in my mind,

Like the lonely moon in the dark sky.

To which I still try to gaze for the time long,

People say to stars now you belong

And I try enough to believe this myth.

Though I do remember your words,

Good people take steps to the paradise,

But you forgot to tell me,

How I can find,

The one lost for the entire life.

Remember? The garden butterflies,

Red, Purple, Yellow and others with stripes

I still try to get near and hold them,

They do still flutter their wings,

And take the flight too high,

But now no one screams for the safety of your child.

Unlike you and that old time.

For an epoch I hold a complaint,

Dreams! There even you don’t glide now,

I pray every night,

For one glimpse of your sight,

“To the disappointment”, I meet at dawn,

But then I still hold a hope,

Of meeting you at the shore of an another night,

Where you will rise from the pious waves,

And the richness of your love,

Will envelope me,

And hold me forever in your beautiful,

Wrinkled eyes.

Mothers hand


P.S :  I am never able to write my heart out when it is all about my “Boba ji”