She cried, sacrificed, denied and defied until she realised that the world was against her. Living was just not her forte.

It was as if you could control my emotions, my poetry. It solely depended on you, what I would write about today. Would it be love, sorrow, pain or just a broken heart talking.

Be better, they said. Don't be you, they meant.

If you think about him while you write poetry, he's the one for you my lovely.

You looked at me and smiled. My heart skipped a beat and then I woke up.

An actor she became at an early age
When brother got all the praise,
She wiped off all the sorrow from her face.
Behold my friends! the time had come,
The sole reason of her survival,
It was marriage alas!
Baba said from a good family he hails,
But the lash marks on her back told other tales.
Then came nine months of misery
A girl it was! all was in vain.
Her son kicked her out at the age of sixty
On the bed of that old age home,
Her last breaths were hasty.
And she said,
'Dear God, don't make me a daughter of Eve,
Dear God, don't make me a daughter of Eve,
A son of Adam to be I plead.'

A mistake indeed,
That's what they called it.
Was it the burkha she wore?
Or that saree?
It was her fault completely.
Was it her clothing?
Or the fact that she was born?
How dare she board that bus
And travel along that lonely road.
**** was a consequence of leaving the house
Getting an education and being who you are.
From four to forty
No one they spared.
Their fault was that they existed
The ways of the human mind are twisted.
We go to our church, temple and dargah
But has disrespect for a woman,
Been taught by Quran, Bible or Veda?
It is time we take a stand,
Enough chances these men have had
It is time we said Beti Zindabad.