An Interview conducted by ‘Writer’s Forum’ in reference to my book ‘Postcards from Memory’:




This is written in Quran,
That is written in Geeta,
In the name of God,
They have interpreted it well,
Follow, or hell awaits

Long beards, white robes,
Bald heads, saffron robes,
Trying, Manipulating,
To control lengths of skirts
To dictate what girls wear

Love! Before marriage!
Intercaste! How dare she?
Ruined our family name!
Kill both, Save our honour
What all these youngsters make us do!

Women are different,
Vulnerable, Weaker,
Control them, Hide them
Marry them off,
They need to be saved

A voice arises,
“The one capable of giving birth
Can she be really weak?”
They crush it though
You youngsters and your questions!

She was raped! What was she wearing?
Spaghetti top! Revealing Dress!
Bitch! She was asking for it…
“Would it matter if she wore a sari, burkha?”
You youngsters and your questions!

An unmarried couple on a bike,
Evil, Evil, This is the age of evil…
“Is there a greater evil
Than one that seeks power over free mind?”
You youngsters and your questions!

– Samir Satam


Searching for romanticism that songs and literature about the city had fed him, he walked the streets with his DSLR in one hand and a backpack on another shoulder. He would suddenly stop, kneel on a knee, click, move ahead, slouch, click, click… Beggars, stray dogs, passing strangers, fish seller women, lovers in a corner, sly men stealing a look at young girls, hawkers, book sellers by the sidewalk. The camera looked, captured all it could in its belly while the photographer walked lost in the pursuit of a perfect shot.
Each time he found a frame, he would think, ‘This is it, my shot of the day’ but then it wouldn’t be enough. His hunger of his mind kept increasing to match up with the camera’s thirst. Both couldn’t get their fill.They gobbled up all they could, the colors or the lack of them, ripples of the ocean, rough texture of roads, intoxicated lights as night came along. Then he realized, he hadn’t eaten and that just like his camera, he had a stomach to fill too. In one corner was a little stall manned by a teen age boy, crowded by people of all ages and genders. The boy was selling wadaa paav (spicy fried potato balls stuffed in buns). The photographer pointed his camera, zoomed on the eatables being handed over and let the camera savor the piping hot wada paavs,the delicious smoke that rose from the large iron kadhaai, the oil that bubbled up to give birth to more wadaas. That’s it, he thought and moved on forgetting all about the juices of hunger that continued to fill up his belly. Click Click Click…
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Once you have savored on the extraordinary sense of bliss, going back to the ordinary routine feels tedious. It isn’t that you weren’t living before this particularly beautiful thing occurred in your life but now that it did and had its branch grown firmly through the window of your life for quite some time, while you kept plucking fruits that grew on it; it is letting go of the branch that is difficult when it is time to cut it off and set the tree free to sway to the wind as it naturally should.


The tree on the other hand is sad too to let go of its old friend but is also relieved that it can move on to swing its branches more freely. Such is the life of a nomadic lover. He respects, cares, loves, gives himself to the other as much as he takes, but knows he can’t stay. He has to leave or he can’t forgive himself for staying tied up in one place. He is called many names, adulterer, philanderer, Casanova, Heart-breaker, etc… But only the nomad knows that each time he breaks a heart, he breaks a bit from within. No matter how much it pains, he has to move on, taking care that he doesn’t cage the magic of love to settle and die into a mundane act. His path lays ahead on which there are many souls to be reached, many lives to be touched, many smiles to be spread and tears to be shed. And in doing so he is always arriving. But to arrive he has to leave… And in leaving he is going to break another heart… And so it goes…

My Corner


I live in a little corner, where I have the luxury to live by my own rules, on my own conditions, on my own set of rights and wrongs. Here in this little place, I have my own garden where pastel thoughts bloom. On my wrist is a watch in which I have my own brand of time. It flows at a rhythmic pace of my thoughts. There is a little door that opens to exotic places from my past which I visit often and stay there as long as I like.

The books I have read over the years, the films I have watched. They hug a wall ready to spring a quote or two whenever I need them or flash a scene when I yearn to revisit one of my favorite movies.

The tastes and aromas hang in air, fresh as they were when I met them first. Here I still feel the traces of people I loved. I can smell the bouquet of fragrances of their skin, of their words, of their thoughts, of their ways of loving me

It is a comfort to have an ever-growing world of my own within this world and a leisure to be able to spend time in it. I keep deriving experiences from the outer world and keep collecting them in my corner.

So used to I am to this place that, where ever I go, I carry my corner with me…