The boy in the ghaghra.




“Hello, my name is Araj. Am I doing it right? Can..can you hear me clearly?” The agitated 21-year-old asked the reporter. Obviously sharing his life story wasn’t easy for him. I never really understood how he found the courage to do the interview, but here I was listening to it along with my reporter friend and his crew, curious to know what he had to say.

“You’re fine Araj. Why don’t you start by telling us about your childhood?” My friend asked him.
Araj went on for a while, reminiscing the sweet taste of his childhood. A good home, loving parents, food on most nights. All he could ask for.

Then came in the hard questions.
“So when did it all start? And how did you get into it?” My friend asked.
“Umm, I was nine. Nine a tough age, ain’t it? The rules of life still vague, games your entire purpose of living..”
“I’m sorry to interrupt you Ajar, but you are going off topic again.”
I would love to walk you guys through the interview, but Ajar’s sentences were slurred with ominous harsh memories. So I am going to paraphrase.

Ajar was nine years old when he met the man he had heard so much about from the older guys. The Dreamcathcer they called him. He took poor needy kids and gave them a career.
That unfortunate day, a month after his ninth birthday, Ajar met the man with the reputation.

The Dreamcatcher met him with a warm smile, and promises of riches for his family. And God knew Ajar’s family needed the extra money. But his proud dad,and coddling mother would never deliberately ask their youngest for help. ‘Children are to play and grow’, they always said. But if told that ajar was just working to carry bags for old lady’s at the market they would never question it, and be happy he is trying to help.
So Ajar agreed to work for him, but covertly.


For the first day of his job , he wore his finest shirt, and practised his introduction. Had a filling breakfast, whatever his mom could prepare that morning. ‘An earning man needs his energy’, he thought to himself. Packed his lunch and marched proudly to the bus stop to get to work.


His workplace, a huge duplex. With small boys practising dance with their appointed teachers. He was given a few guidelines at his orientation, which he didn’t understand completely. They said he had to learn to do his own make-up. They’ll provide the ghaghra. He works for five hours, and gets 400 a day, the only part he understood clearly. He was then sent into a room with bright flourescent lighting. Given a dress to wear, a girls dress. He tried to question the attire, but was answered with an angry ruthless stare,which he guessed could lead to firing on his first day. So he got dressed, they did his make up. When done, he looked in the mirror and couldn’t recognise his own gender. His groups appointed teacher thought him and the other boys,who looked calm and skilled, a few dance moves. And they were quickly pushed into the spotlight.
There was loud music in the huge room, and brighter lights than the room earlier. And howling men, who seemed to be enjoying the show they were to put. Ajar danced as thought. Even though missing out on most of the steps, he still received a good response from the drunk men. He didn’t quite enjoy this fame though. Something about it made him feel sick. But it was good money, so he danced.

The music stopped and the boys were taken inside. He could hear the men screaming out colors as he was leaving. The other boys discussed that their ghaghra should be the voted color for the day, cause that’s extra money.  Ajar was still clueless. This new workplace was gruelling, and weird he thought. He was asked to wait in a small room for the other half of his assignment they told him. He entered the room, there was a small dirty bed, dim lighting, and a table with a jug full of dark brown liquid which filled the room with its stench. He was finally addressed by an older boy, Ajar had so many questions that he hurled them all out at once. The older boy asked him to calm down. He said, ‘The good men outside are lonely and ailing. They come here for love. And you  give them that love. Do you understand? You can leve if you want. But Ull be paid only 1/4 of what was promised, and shall not return. Will you finish your room assignment?” He stared at Ajar for an answer. Ajar not understanding the graveness of the situation, quickly told him he’ll do his best at all assignments given. The older boy smiled and left.
Ajar waited in his room.

An old man with silver hair, and yellow teeth came  stumbling, and singing,a few minutes later. Ajar greeted him with a smile. The old man told Ajar he needs to do nothing but lie down, he will take care of the rest. Ajar obliged. But the old man came on to him, And he was heavy. Ajar started squealing under him, and resisted the forceful caressing. The older man was quickly infuriated. And said he is going to ask for a different boy if Ajar was to cause any more problems. Ajar out of fear of losing his job, lied down.

The old man did things Ajar couldn’t comprehend. His genitals hurt, his lips were sore, his skin was burning. The old man was strong and harsh with his love. Ajar didn’t understand it, but he felt disgusting. And prayed for it to end soon so that he could go back to his mom. Once the old man was done Ajar was hurting all over,and sobbing with distress. He laid naked as the old man got up, dressed and left. The pain was horrible. His entire body was shivering.

Ajar couldn’t walk straight, or sit for days after the incident. He didn’t return to his appalling job.
That was until his family slept yet another night without dinner. Then he returned again,and he did until he was 14, and wasnt the right age for the lecherous pedophiles.
His parents never knew what was happening with him, they were consumed with their own problems. He simply told them he fell while playing football,when asked. Slowly his body adapted to its sullying every day for that one hour.

“I tell you my story today,because I need my story to be heard. For boys to know better than to get sucked in, and be exploited at such a tender age.
I need them to know it’s not their fault or choice  to be raped every day, or to dance to horny men. I can be their cautionary tale. Save them from the foul the world has to offer at every corner. The world is a horrible place, especially for the poor. It really is.”

Ajar ended his story, with tears in his eyes. I could feel his pain through his clenched fists, and his despairing morose face.

I could see him experience it all over again. I could see horror in his eyes, and hear the disgust in his voice. How tough it must  have been for him to relive it in front of a camera. Knowing he will be heard was his only solace. He had helped.

– Sabah Batul



















My author.



When the sun rests,
and the owls stare.
When stars dance,
and kisses are shared.
He picks up his quill,
and he births art.
This world stands still,
and his world starts.

Time goes back to
when living was at its finest.
Poetry was our honey,
and its taste broke us free!

The wine touches his lips,
He begins to transcend our thoughts,
he teaches us to dream against our odds.
We become one with him.
He makes us swoon for
his living words.
And he has magic in his ink.

He dims his lights.
Takes strolls through woods.
Lurks around inspiration.
He sometimes waits for her.
Her beauty was the essence of something better.
Something of a hope, she was for others.
He understood that.
So he bleed out words.
And we read it, and we understood what love meant.

Now when I read.
I feel his pain,
I feel his passion,
his fire, his lust.
I feel what he felt,
And my turns ashen.
The beats of his heart,
revives mine back.
Engrossed I am.
Because in a dark world,
souls with such beauty as my author.
They drive me mad.
I realize something though,
I frolic and dance.
I might have hope.
Because if he was made,
God must have saved the mould.

#passionate #inspiring #authors
#authors #hope #joy





Shades of dark.



I am in a dark room,
And I won’t leave,
even though I try.
This is my recurrent dream.
I think about it every night.
I am scared to close my eyes, because I don’t want to go back to its darkness.
Time there is slow,
souls there weep and wail.
They are all in despair,
All joy there has turned stale.
They are all in pain.
And whatever I say doesn’t matter, or change my plight.
It’s just a dream I know.
Maybe I shouldn’t fight.
And it shall soon be my past.
But the past clings on to me,
and I stay stagnant.
I simulate nothingness.
I am empty in my dream.
And I ponder,
Unsure if my dream and reality differ much. And I wonder
if I’ll ever move on.
Or enter my future,if I even have one.
But I don’t think I can.
The music in my dream keeps me imprisoned,
and the smokes are shades of dark.
They suffocate me. So listen,
what happens when you die in a dream?
You don’t see light?
Do you wake up?
Or lose your mind.
I don’t know.
Maybe I’ll just be lost.
Lost into space like realm.
Where you don’t matter.
Nothing does.
And time slips away,
And it never comes back.
Time slips from you,
and yourself. And I’ll simply wither away.
-Sabah Batul

I need saving.



It surprises me how you can be with everyone you love, and yet feel desolate of presence.

You stand like it’s required,
But who you are, is in siege,
and I don’t know how that happened.
And how panic slowly seeps in, and engorged my anxiety.
I don’t know how I cringe,
And carry on my duties.
I am a coward, who is scared.
Who will never revolt.
Because she never believed in

I don’t know what my essence is about.
I exist, and I breathe.
I stutter, and I fall.
I am disparaged,  disappointed.
I am turning to null.

I walk. I think.
Who am I?
What do I fear?
Why the perpetual pain.
I don’t know.
I don’t believe in much.
I’m just the girl who is drifting away into oblivion.
Yet, I stand and look for a reason to live.
But I still live without one.
Do you know what I am trying to say?
Yeah, me neither.
Just blabbering.
I don’t know.
Maybe,I am saying,
“Help me.”
Maybe I’m screaming,
“I want to be rescued from obsolete danger.”
I’m squealing in desperation,
“Be my saviour, anyone. Any stranger.”
Because I need it. I need hope.
I need saving.

I am fine though, no worries.


-Sabah Batul.



You listen, so I tell.
But you look away with disgust.
You tell me I’m repugnant,
and oh hell,
Someone else might listen.
So you send me off in a rush.
Then you hide my decisions, you tell me whose boss.
You make me fear the Gods.
Everything I do is condemned mistakes.
Impeached I am, and your despise propagates.
But why are you so quick to judge me?
Why does your mind force me into lines.
Lines you draw in fear of people,
people who lost their minds.
To desire,lust, greed,and power of the time.
Yet I’m wrong, and what I do might as well be debauchery?
You insolent fool, you mark my name.
Now I am required to pay penance in shame.
Now there is guilt, and disappointment every turn I take.
And all I tried to do was tell you,
Because I thought you wanted to listen.

-Sabah Batul

The bad men.




The bad men, they come out in the open now,
They brave the loss of dark,
And ever so slow they find ways to our hearts.
We let them in as family,
Then those selfish beings
put us down enough to make us believe.
Believe that their scrapes we can live off of.
Make us believe we are inadvertent obsolete thoughts.
That we’ll be gone, and paid no heed.
Gone with a puff like their good weed.
The bad men come out now,
They pay frequent visits
Their facade is a lie they don’t care to live.
What about us??
We strive to find a care.
Someone who would tell us we aren’t burdens to bear.
Someone who wouldn’t care about the Orphan label we share.

Look out for the bad men till then, love.

-Sabah Batul


Until I have to say Goodbye.




Those few happy people, yes they exist.
Those few left, who are truly happy.
They make the best of every day.
How does it feel when they don’t stay?
How does it feel when you have to watch them die?
You have to watch them beg to be euthanized!
Let me tell you how.

I stand and watch as his
life is pulled out of him.
I stand and watch him lose control.
He does smile, and makes sure I do too.
He smiles to hide all his pain and ordeal.
That devilish smile, it’s our driving will.
But every day,
Slowly, dramatically, every day.
We lose him a little.
We watch him
bleed out his soul that wants to stay.

His death skulks around us like an old friend.
But death, how do I prepare myself to lose his scent,
His presence, his voice, his walk, his lips, his touch, my strength.
He brought me happiness when I thought it was just a myth.
He brought me life when I didn’t want to breathe.
Now he leaves, and it’s unclear why.
How can the Gods watch and let this happen?
How do they let us all cry?
Who knows.
I can’t care to ask anymore.
So I stand by his bed.
I simply stand and love.
Love him till his last breath.
I wait for him to depart.
I wait for my life to leave my side.

He is smiling right now.
Oh, that devilish smile.
So I stand by his bed.
I simply stand and love.
Love him till his last breath.

I will, until I have to say Goodbye. And I will after that as well.


-Sabah Batul

A song.



I dreamt as a kid.. I sang a song.
I sang tales of the future.
Stories of travels
to bays of nature.
Stories of handsome men
I dreamt.
They saved me from all their torments.
I sang about the world,
and the love it hold.
Unaware of tremors
Of souls sold.
Of course, I didn’t know then what I know now.
About fallacy and pretence.
About cussing and hurting crows.

Yet I  sing through the night.
But now my songs accompany wet pillows,
With infatuations imposed.
A different story it is now
Story of struggles and scars.
Of lessons and days marred.
But you know, you still got to sing your tune,
Kindle for inner warmth.
You sing, for your different soul,
Because soul’s need to be heard.
To be emancipated, to grow old.
So dream and sing.
Be peculiar and quirky.
Whatever you do,
Don’t live for the world’s mercy.

It is already a scary world. No need to add to what’s already lost.

-Sabah Batul

She escapes.



You committed a sin,
And now your faith is sealed.
The old man said crying,
Trembling with fear.
He was scared of the future near.
The worst would be a burden to carry.
She was deemed impure,
Given into the lures
Of something which was warning to heed.
How she wished someone would take her stead.

Maybe that’s why she sat writing a note,
A blade in one hand.
Ink in the other.
Impervious to the circumstances.
She should have been imperious maybe.
But all the ink wouldn’t explain,
What gave her dark art leverage.
She wasn’t gullible, or drowning.
She was smart, empowering.
But no one knew,
Or asked.
Anonymous she might die at last.
She slit her wrists,
Blood drips down.
Angst flows through her veins.
Oh how relieving as the aggrieved soul drains.
Drop by drop, impurities turned to purity.
Cage to freedom.
And suicide to life.
And she escapes.
Judge her as much as will,
But your drunk life ridden eyes
won’t see her case.
And so…. She escapes.

She explains why, but I’ll never understand.

Now you stay, she left.
We hear cries of her family.
You hear their pain.
But at least she is happy now,
Somewhere away from this loathed town.
She escapes. Repeats the third person.
Again and again with regret.
She escapes. She escapes.
-Sabah Batul

Our great men of hope.



I could have written this better,
but I can’t. Anything I say might just turn out to be a travesty.
But I will try.

Breaking points reached,
And ropes are his hope tonight,
As beautiful he might have been,
Even though he had put on a tough fight.
At least was known he lived better than many.
Died on a higher stance.
Guess it makes you worry,
How many Andy’s did we lose to chance.
Chance which was at the hands of stake holders insolent,and conceited.
We let it pass by,
We didn’t want to feel smitten,
By things we can’t control.
Like his friendships on those consecutive tedious days.
A witty narrator, and a band of different tales.
He took him under his wings,
Or maybe it was the other way.
They made each other happy, brought change.
A good, fatal life.
You see though, our beautiful man
wasn’t just beautiful. He was smart.
He left the living profanity clueless as ever.
And did what wasn’t done before.
No matter what exquisite talents the subject hold,
He gave a good quote.

I end curtly now without explaining much of my niche deductions.
And I quote him for the formidable man he was.
“I guess it comes down to a simple choice, really.
Get busy living, or get busy dying.”

-Sabah Batul