Hang Them High!

Hang Them High!
(Against the brutal gang-rape in Delhi)

Hang  them high!

Hang all the rapists high

in the scorching deserts

and let their bodies be

snatched away and tear apart

by those hungry vultures.


Such animals don’t need any

Capital punishment, they need

to sever their burning hot ‘tools’

which they used as weapons

to injure the innocent girl!


What a bad time that women have

to live in danger all around with no safety

no law and order and no security!

They are safe nowhere, in schools,

on roads and even in the public  buses!

Seeing an alone girl those rapist men,

attacked her like wolves. Shame on them!


Rapist men demonstrate no insight

like sociopaths  forget that some day

their own sisters, mothers or daughters

could be brutally attacked

and raped in a similar fashion!

Women are not safe anywhere!

These six rapists not only tarnished

the sacred milk of their mothers, but also

have declared themselves as bastards!

They tarnished the name of their ancestors

and their country in the eyes of the world.


Death penalty for the rapists is like

redeeming them from sufferings

and  exempting  them  from serving 

the punishment of their crime!

The only punishment of their

gruesome crime can be

to make them impotent

disable  them to produce children.

Let them live to suffer with guilt

and humiliation of their crime.

Smear their faces with dirt

inscribe a word “RAPIST” on each

of their foreheads with black ink

and hang them high

stone them in public

Condemn them!




During 2011 many visitors were searching poems on non-violence or violence against women. My book Aaurat Shabad & Shakti presents many poems about women their virtues and their uniqueness. Poems reflect woman as a symbol of capacity, capability and calm when respected and loved.

.Non-Violence is the way of life, says Buddha:










Bamboo Trees!

From the tiny little girls

to young beautiful brides

to mothers to grandmothers

women fly on their dreams.

Women are angels –

gifted with the wings

glide along with the wind

and move with the waves.

When the blows of harsh words

break the wings of our dreams

we simply continue the flight

silently, because we cannot stop

and the journey never ends.

We keep on soaring high

on the wings of imagination

moving along with the wind

waving  like bamboo trees

without  spine

without any ground under our feet!

Dreaming and just dreaming

dreaming about what is not there

and when the reality hits our hearts

bleed inside our body silently

no one sees us no one feels the pain 

thinking this is not happening to us

We are just dreaming!

Soft masks of fresh smiles

we put on our lips each morning!

As if the dark nights were only in the dreams!

The bamboo trees dance with the wind

and women fly on their dreams!

An Incarnation Of Kali

I am real. Touch me
touch me with your flesh
feel me with your senses.

I am not dead.
I throb.
I pulsate.
I breathe.
I am alive.
I can rewrite my fate.
I will write a new script
of my own and will live it.

I am
an incarnation of the Kali-
the goddess of power.

I will illuminate
in many forms
I am Durga
I am Chandi
I am Bhawani,
and I am Kalika –
the mighty goddess Kali.

This time I will become the Kali –
I will grow
many hands on my body,
and would hold
a shinning sword in my one hand
and a skull of the devil in the other
I will appear on the stage
riding over a lion
and roaring with eyes sparkling.

I will chant the sermon
of the tenth Guru:
“O Lord Shiva,
bestow upon me
your benediction
so that I will never be afraid
to do virtuous act.
If I am under attack then
empower me O, Mighty!
so that I can protect myself.”

Voiceless Women

By Surjeet Kalsey

Yes, they are still sitting there
quietly waiting for someone
someone will come
and inscribe their fate
on their foreheads
or a stream of passion
would spring up from within
or a straw would become a pen.

Women are sitting in the house
as if they are stitting on the street
without its floor without its door
but walls are still their retreat

Voiceless women live in this house
within these four walls
without its door, without its floor
quietly they wait for someone
would come and spread out
earth under their feet.

The tale they wanted to tell
that has become aged, stopped.
The tale is circling within circle
from ages and their voice is not heard
their eyes are lit like lamps
on their wrinkled faces – waiting
waiting and waiting someone will come.
Their story is being written in their wrinkles
they will bury their story with their bodies
or a straw would become a pen
or they would remain voiceless even in this age.

The above poem was read at the Festival of South Asian Literature on 26 Sept. 2009 in Toronto in the opening session of the conference.