The Yazidi Girls

One of the saddest things to hear is the horror stories we wouldn’t even have thought of in our wildest dreams come true. Such is the story of the Yazidi Girls that your heart is bound to break at all the cruelty this world has to offer.

I had the opportunity of meeting Ms. Mawahib Shaibani, who is an Art of Living teacher working in Syria and Iraq to provide trauma relief and support to refugees and victims of war, and other two Yazidi women of Iraq who had gone through countless struggles and sought solace in the help offered by Ms. Mawahib Shaibani.

When the ISIS attacked their village at midnight, they killed all the men and took away the children. “The girls were taken and collected in a hall. They segregated us and kept the pretty ones for the soldiers to use as their sex toys. We were raped and abused every single day,” one of them spoke. She talked of 12 year old girls who would be raped by around 20-50 men, and sometimes even more, countless times over and over again.

Yet, somewhere down the line, with the so-called ‘end’ of ISIS, these girls could escape. Unfortunately, not all of them were so lucky. Out of the 6500 girls that were captured, 3500 are still missing. “Help us,” she said, “Help us bring our girls back. Spread our stories. Let the world know.”

The very least we can do is cause an uproar in social media. Let the world know what is going on, lament over it like we did for the Paris attack, fight to get them back like we’ve fought for gay rights, get people involved like how they got involved in the #MeToo campaign, and for once, use the social media for good.

Please, we owe humanity that much.


For the love of Books

It’s amazing how a tiny little book with words printed on them, plain like a cardboard, can conjure up so much of magic in your head. For me, reading almost feels like meditation, a journey inwards, as I turn page after page, seeing little characters play out in the field of my imagination, watching them from a place where only I can see them and they cannot. They pass through me and onto their daily lives like I’m a ghost when it is them that are ghosts instead. Yet they seem so alive that I forget to live for some time and I swear, I’d rather go off to live with them then. I cry while the story unfolds, when the character I so loved dies, I laugh when they crack jokes, and when words form poetry, I fall into an abyss where words merge into colours and I see sensations like sunrise falling on tips of leaves. I fall in love over and over with the smell of these books, with the poetry in their words and the soft yet strong message behind the tiny little letters, lessons I learn from the lives that never existed. So when I close the book, I shut the portal off, like I had just time travelled to another life without the help of complex machines run by science. I awaken, and I keep the book aside; such magic should only be held by those who understand it.

The girl of art.

I don’t know when I last came across a mess so beautiful. She called herself ordinary like all the hurricanes call themselves, the first time I saw her she was draped in the color of the purest element. The color of fire, she walked out through the gate and I found myself shamelessly staring at the person in front of me. I still find myself usually staring at her. My eyes have found their vision in reality, a vision so beautiful Lisa would shy away for a moment and allow the great Vinci to stroke a few.

She’s built a home in my mind, and she spends every moment inside it, when I close my eyes the world swings back to the bang and speeds towards to the light of the thousand lotuses. Her smile of victory engraved in every petal, with a sweet fragrance of freedom floating around her. When I open my eyes, I’m filled with a new found energy of happiness and serenity. I’ve build bridges of time to connect to her, cause she’s far away, a moment away.

The gallery of my soul is filled with pictures.

Her’s is the alpha and omega.



Wild eyes. Brown hair.

Crazy ride.

The sun was an orange ball. Beyond the horizon, it stayed away from humans. Its brilliance could burn.

She looks over at him.

Tousled hair. Callouses. Scars. He knows. He’s grown early at nineteen. More grown up than anyone at nineteen could ever be.

More mysterious than the secret of stars. A flower, borne of the wind, she smells like fragrance, she feels like rain.

His skin is a canvas. Stories whisper from each beating he got from his father.

She has her mother’s face. Full lips that trembled whenever she cried.

He wanted to be an artist. He could have been a vagabond, traveling to places, marking his life with memories that felt as alive as him.

She wanted to be a dancer. But life got busy and her legs ache whenever she does one of her practice routines now.

“How have you been?”

“Good.” (She lies.) “And you?”

“Me too.” (He lies.)

The waiter serves wine and chicken wings. They eat silently under the quiet suburban lights. Their silence stares at nothing.

Past lovers. Nothing much to say after all.

He drops her to her hotel.

She reaches out to thank him, but draws her hand back.

His brilliance could burn.

Her eyes could hypnotise.



If only they had stayed longer, there might have been an eclipse.



Black pearls of mine.

Her eyes, black pearls at the end of my favorite cold coffee. Distinct from the brown sea of awakening, a pirates inspiration for adventures beyond bay. The black pearls of mystery, so ordinary yet priceless. Easy to watch, easy to lose gaze of and impossible to hold catch of.

Home and sanctuary to a sparrow like me.  They possess an infinite set of variations with another infinite set of probabilities. A weapon so lethal, the victim loses every game of chance and consciousness.

Her beautiful eyes, I sway at their tune. So fragile, so mysterious, so powerful. My choice of life in life.

Her eyes, they hold the perpetual fire of eternity. They illuminate the dark world of Ragnarok, the thousand petal lotus to my kundalini.

Her eyes, I love them.

Her, I love her more.

The Painter

You told me you loved painting. Every day you would splash colours on your canvas and create magic with every stroke. You would spiral colours into galaxies of your mind and the onlooker would be lost in your world of imagination.

When you met me, you touched my soul in a way no one had. You splashed your colours on me till I was drenched and soaked with your attention. You read me like a painting, noticing each and every detail, the strokes of my hair that fell on my shoulder, the chocolate brown eyes as big as cups of coffee, the dark places inside of my heart which were deceptively hidden but you noticed them anyway.

It was an undeniable romance that seemed to last eternity.

But when I had to leave, all you had left on your fingers were the red, black, lilac, blue and colours you cannot quite describe of my soul, and I remained the only art that you never knew how to paint.


I am sorry I am not broken.

No, I am not messed up, I’m not shattered into pieces. Dare I still write a poem?

Only those are allowed to be sonnets of love songs,

Only those are allowed to be the greatest and loveliest of poets,

those who are broken.
But I am not broken nor messed up nor shattered.

I don’t have scars to brag about, I don’t have pain to hide.

I don’t have sadness engulfing me, killing me inside but a smile on the outside, which would mean I was strong.

Does that mean I’m not strong?

I smile when I feel like it, and I feel that often,

I do not smile when pain is killing me inside, I find that I cannot,

But poems are only written about those who cry within and laugh outside.

So am I not worthy of the poem, am I not strong for being who I am and showing what I feel?
You see, I am not broken nor messed up nor shattered,

My heart was not taken up by a Prince Charming in disguise and crushed into pieces

I don’t have a heart break to dramatize

I don’t have a heart break to cry over, to write love poems about.

But that’s the kind of love poems everyone reads,

that’s the kind of love poems even more write.

Does that make me a bad poet?

A poet without sadness would be like a pen without ink,

the words flow without being registered.
I am not broken nor messed up nor shattered,

and I feel left alone in this world

where broken people are glorified and immortalised through words.

I feel left out when people speak of how broken and messed up and shattered they are

And I know I’m not.

They tell me its a good thing,

I can speak of sunshine and smiles.

They tell me that it is the worst thing that could happen to them, and it feels like their heart is being pulled out of their body,

they tell me they are a mess that I wouldn’t want to clean up,

they tell me that they’ve got a shell meant to keep people outside

because they’ve got demons killing them inside,

they tell me they are different

(does that make me mundane?)

But even as they do this,

They tell it with pride because poets just write about broken and messed up and shattered souls.
I must not be worthy of a poem while all this time all I wanted was to be one.

Renegades with traditions to culture

A world, one without instability is like a river without waves. Changes bring about influences ones that shape “the now”, waves are symbols of freedom ones that bring hurricanes of mystery. All of time has possibilities, possibilities that can change time. All of the possibilities are recognized by the men with vision” the men who make our tomorrows. People who live in today mark the nows with precision and shoot their consciousness to the days of the future.

The leaves of history are filled with such renegades, renegades who create traditions. Traditions that are crippled with culture, values driven by benefits.

So I pray to renegades of today, of tomorrow. Traditions are meant to be cultured, cultures not to be “traditioned” .

When you Fall in Love for the First Time

When you fall in love for the first time,
you will get butterflies in your stomach.
Do not swallow them whole.
Hold his hand.
Watch the butterflies go to sleep.

When you fall in love for the first time,
revel in the feeling,
it will not come back.
You will long for him like water in a dry desert
a little more when he smiles at you
or offers you his umbrella when it’s raining.
The butterflies will fly out from your stomach
into your lips and make its home there.

When you fall in love for the first time,
you will hardly see him for who he is.
Heck, you will barely even recognize yourself
in the mirror.
Your step will have more bounce and you
can hear your friends call you, “Oh silly!”
But it won’t matter
because right now,
only he does.

When you fall in love for the first time,
you are going to want to live a fairy-tale.
But love,
he is not an Angel, no, he’s not even a Prince
He is something much much more special,
He is a Human.

Love him, don’t idolize him,
for if you do,
that glass of illusion is going to shatter,
It’s jagged pieces breaking your heart.

For when you fall in love for the first time,
you’ve got to be careful
Because you never know when
the Butterflies are going
to die.

What if

What if, a picture of the life you were supposed to live, one that you satisfy living in a parallel universe instead. What if, two words to describe what might’ve been, words as unpredictable as the future itself. What if, a sigh of regret, a wish to turn back time and yet, a smile of contentment, for what if you are happy exactly as you are, like it is meant to be, without having to change anything at all?

We all are so used to living in what ifs and regrets that we forget to live instead. We forget to take the much more powerful antidote, the other two words, ‘Thank you.’

‘Thank you for the choices I’ve made,’ ‘Thank you because if this doesn’t make sense now, I have faith that it will someday,’ ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ on and on till you feel rich with vibrant energy and deep seated contentment.

For if ‘what if’s’ are like the bittersweet muddy waters after the rain, one that sucks you in sticky sadness till you can’t move further anymore, stagnant like a mosquito stuck in a spider web, then ‘thank you’s’ are like the fresh summer breeze, cooling all the hyper active synapses, whispering in your ear, ‘It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.’

Forgive the human follies and mistakes which are all an imperfect part of a perfect design, all in the process of moving towards the simple realization; gratitude is always stronger than regret. Let’s make the best of what we have to create the best of what could ever happen because if this is the only life we’ve got, it’s too damn short to dwell in ‘what if’s’.