The ‘Never Ending’ Car Ride

The ‘Never Ending’ Car Ride

Strapped by force
In the back- seat of a car.
Going to a destination
That’s been told
‘ It’s not too far.’
‘ We’ll be there, before you know it
And have a picnic
In the park.’

Little does the ‘little one’ know,
The lapse of time
For boredom easily grows.
Insipid interiors
Memorized to every cranny.
Even the hair strands of Mommy,
Visible from the back.

“Are we there, yet?”
You cry out.
“Not yet, dear-
There’s a distance to go.”
Traffic on highway.
Cars and lights.
Take their shape into
Mirthless skies.
Scorching heat
Sweaty palms
” Can we turn the AC on?”

“Are we there, yet?”
The mother sighs.

And the child
With no reply
Learns to distract himself.
Sings a song.
Count the trees.
Pick out shapes
In the fluffy clouds.

“Are we there, yet?”
No reply.
So, the child drifts off to sleep.

Sooner than he knows,
He’s out again.
And carried in arms.
Carried off to the destination,
He had waited and dreamt for so long.

Once awake,
He will play again.
With butterflies
And gaze at rainbows
And raindrops
That he can taste.

The journey of life, my dear-
Isn’t too long.
You keep asking
“Are we there yet?”
And you’ll be at the park soon.
Run, skip and laugh
With your friends in joy.
Paradise is only a patient car ride away.

©Dr Hafsa Siddiqui

Photo: Dubai ( 2011)






Men with scars
Etch their own marks
Onto the souls
And bodies
Of the women they meet.
Like a blade
Knows its own way
When it meets the skin,
Men with scars
Know the path
To trace onto new flesh.

Men with scars,
End up themselves as scars,
Onto a bleeding derm.
They hurt you,
And then stay
Forever onto your skin
Reminding of the pain…
The sweet ache
That a scratch brings.
The uneven skin folds
That a scar tissue forms
Forever changes
The terrain of your skin
And soul.
Twisted and distorted;
With its own beauty-
Like a beauty mark.
Or a signature of the pain.
That’s done its duty.

©Dr Hafsa Siddiqui (2017)



How much time lapses
Between decades
But one glimpse
At a lover’s face
And the heart travels eons,
And traverses time.
Emotions gone cold,
Are stoked anew.
As sweltering volcanic ash,
blows away the blows of time.
Mt Vesuvius bellowing
The hot flames of fire
For memories embalmed
Over the Mediterranean earth,
Countless times.

© Dr Hafsa Siddiqui

Picture credits: Google images


The Gift (poem)

The Gift ( poem)

Suraiya coaxed her daughter Amna,
A dingy room is where she took her.
Rites of passage to womanhood
Is marked with a gift.
No other words exchanged
For the girls at school
Bullied her for being a ‘ girl’.
‘Not yet a woman’.
The little girl oblivious
To the slurs
Found meaning all too soon
Without verbal or sacred explanations.
A razor raised by rough hands
Spread and touched her
Where no one should.
Excruciating pain.
And shrieks.
But no muscle on
Her mother’s face flinches.
“It will be fine.
You’ll be a woman.”
The only words uttered,
To a bleeding seven year old.
Legs tied.
Groggy with pain.
Still no sign of painkillers.
For fourteen days,
She cries and bears
The rites of passage.
And finally on the fifteenth day,
She has earned the rite.
She crosses over to the ‘other’ life;
With the gift of infection,
Another ‘woman’ had died.

—Dr Hafsa Siddiqui (2018)


FGM is an unIslamic and barbaric practice that must be banned and condemned. It has gone on for far too long in the  fake shroud of cultural practices. Women for women. Women for their own daughters and sisters.



The Sacrifice

The Sacrifice

Separating her young legs,
His manliness found a way,
And she reciting the durood shareef,
Fought her senses
To get done with the incest.
Take me,
Not my sister.
The sacrifice.

© Dr Hafsa Siddiqui


Commentary: This poem that I wrote almost a year ago, was asked to be taken down due to its objectionable content. We adults need to wake up to  what exactly our kids are facing. If all things will be under the rug swept, then more distorted and unhealed stories will continue to be written. Speak now. Act now. Care now. It matters to a child.



I wonder if monsters
Ever have demons of their own.
Demons that plaque them…
Demons that creep
From under their bed.
Incubus or succubus
That call their name in sleep.
Medusa that turn to stone,
Their shocked bodies.
Or just ‘humans’
That beat the monsters
At their game.
Stalkers, serial killers, rapists,
Online predators …
Up to date.
So called ‘feminists’
That sling mud
Onto women that cannot hurt.
Cat- calling , Eve- teasing,
For tis’ the women are to blame.
Even monsters may have rules.
What to speak of mortals; fools.
Pedophiles lure the innocence,
To their darkest lairs.
Putting even demons to shame.


©Dr Hafsa Siddiqui (2018)