Mohi symbolises ""the hurting"" and Kabir is all about ""the healing"" that comes after it. A book written and illustrated by author,which is for everyone. for those who believe in love and compassion and for those who don't. Those who have healed and those who are still in process. Those who aren't able to move on and those who have successfully done it. It is for feminists, the activists, the believers, the gender norm shatterers.It is a gift, a book on its journey to make difference in it's reader's life.

    I lived through and beyond horrific child abuse. This book tells of my brutal beginnings, starting when I was only four years old when my mother went in to hospital to have baby number three. My clothing was stripped off by my father, who hung me upside down naked on a hook on the inside of a cupboard door by the ankles. He beat me with his huge hands, then only took me down once I stopped screaming. He then plunged me into a pre prepared bath full of cold water, where I almost drowned. Even although he was holding me under the water, and I was thrashing about and fighting my young life, I could hear my drunken father laughing at me. My abuse and ridicule follows me through my school years, and has a major impact on my mental health. My family grew until I had six siblings all living with me in a two bedroom cottage. I was never acknowledged as a son by my violent father, I was the outcast, the one who brought shame to the family, and I was the devils child. This is the true story of a childhood lost, and the struggles to overcome the mental anguish afflicted on me throughout my young life. This story will take the reader on a painful journey as I move with my siblings around Scotland, from house to house, and school to school, always just evading the authorities who could have helped me. This story leaves nothing to the readers’ imagination. There are some lighter moments throughout the book which will make the reader laugh, but my story will make you wonder how I survived, and what does happen behind closed doors. Even although I am now over 60 years old, I often sometimes mourn my stolen childhood, it is like a limb has been pulled off, I can feel where it was supposed to be but it is just not there, it is a part of me which I will never get back, it was taken away without my consent and is now lost forever. Sometimes it just hits me out of nowhere, an overwhelming sadness and emptiness rushes over me. I get disheartened and I feel hopeless, sad, and hurt, and once again I feel numb to the world.