|Asifa, My Child|
|The eight-year-old girl was kept confined without food |
for three days and gang-raped.
Asifa, my child, I wish
I was not writing about you
But holding you to my chest.
Asifa, I wish you were watching
Joyfully as I ripped apart
The hyenas and hung their
Entrails at the temple door,
So the gods therein would smell
The stench of their complicity.
What wicked deity could
Give you those beautiful black
Eyes just so you could be witness
To your so beastly mutilation?
Asifa, you were born in a country
That did not deserve you, that does
Not deserve millions of your sisters
Either. This is the territory of predators
Merely and gods are their
Benefactors, presiding over their kills
With male delight, while the goddesses
Seem powerless as most women.
They chose a temple so the gods
Would protect them and pour benediction
Over their unthinkable evil - all on behalf
Of a favoured community who did
Did not wish to see the least of
"Their" land frequented by an
"Alien" band, although one in nature
With more ancient claim to
Forest, foothill, river, and pasture.
Thus men of "standing" made an
Example to serve your riven little
Corpse to the "enemy" as a sample.
Thus you were fed as a morsel to
Gods who these days all ruling
Excesses endorse. Pious middlemen.
Of the "national interest" came
Out thronging the streets, officers of
The Law cocking many a snook with
Aplomb at instruments of justice
To which they ought to belong.
Asifa, my child, this gibberish that
I am writing is but a weak old man's
Confession that the knowledge
Of what horror transpired upon
Your uncomprehending, aghast innocence
Can never be captured in words
Of commiserate distance, however
Blood-drenched the heart and the
Fingers that seek to reduce to sense
The infernal terror of your experience.
Asifa, angel, I cannot now assure
You that your sacrifice will encrypt
The future from gruesome rites,
But, my child, how I wish you
Would come to me at night and
Upon my chest and arm find
Home again and lose all your fright.
How I wish some god somewhere
Would grant this much miracle
To my failing human sight.
I Sent The Horses Back Home
I sent the horses trotting,
And they found their way back home.
But, I couldn't.
My legs that you thought were
Swift as those of a deer,
Maai, they froze.
But I sent the horses home.
Maai, them monsters,
They had no horns or fangs,
Or deadly long nails.
But they hurt me.
They hurt me bad, Maai.
The purple flowers,
The yellow butterflies,
They stood there helpless.
While I sent the horses back home.
Tell Baba that I know,
I know he tried.
I heard him say out my name,
I heard him repeat it loud.
I was sleepy Maai,
I was tired.
They hurt me bad.
Strange as it may seem to you,
It feels like your warmth now.
It doesn't hurt anymore.
The blood has dried
And it looks like the purple blossoms
That swayed with me in the meadows.
It doesn't hurt, Maai.
The monsters are still out there.
And there are stories too.
Don't listen to them Maai,
Gut wrenching and agonizing they are
And a lot you've gone through.
Lest I forget,
There's a temple there
Where lives a goddess.
For I think it's she who helped,
The horses find their way back home.
Will we keep this moment alive
You froze the ink in my pen Asifa,
you made my blood run cold
your face, your eyes, a question, Asifa,
these wounds, both new and old
I stare at his face, a regular man
he too was once a child,
what sickness came upon his brain,
this madness, rage run wild,
Does evil find the hollow hearts of men
and to fell it, he must die?
What hate, what lust, what drove him there?
does it live in you and i?
This shame, this anger,
this sharing of grief,
will we keep this moment alive,
will her death, her pain,
her life, her name,
remind us, always of why-
Of why there is scant meaning,
in gods or texts or lands,
in leaders and their platitudes
in our outstretched, praying hands
If we in all our wisdom,
in this land where religion thrives,
cannot protect our weakest,
their innocence and their lives,
what use then are our idols,
what use our holy books
why visit temples, churches,
go to mosques, our praying nooks,
Instead, let's look at our mirrored eyes,
for the humanity that we seek,
for the protectors of the voiceless,
for the voices of the weak,
Let's change our songs of them and us,
and create instead a life,
where our thoughts, our words and actions,
build a world removed from strife,
Where an eight year old Asifa
can roam her meadows free,
her horses grazing beside her,
in the shade of a summer tree
And the world is a gentler, kinder place
because we've chosen to make it so,
and a mother doesn't cling to a little dress,
for her little girl who's no more.
Yours bright eyes, your smile…
By Dipak Adhya
Your bright eyes
Your beaming smile
And your name
Have been carved with eternal love and passion
Oh! My little Daughter
Indeed,let you see
Your fragrance has been spread
Like an Asifa flower
In every corner
Oh! Dear! you are unfortunate enough
Your innocence was devoured by greedy insects
You know Dear
We are really helpless
In our world there a large number of insects
All are roaming with lust
And innocence Asifa(s)
Are leaving us
Now let I pray for your eternal peace
Andyou too pray for
A heavenly mankind
Without evil insects and crime!
News Updated at : Monday, April 16, 2018
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