Linda Ashok's Waiting for the Helicopter is leeway to her expressions-an escape of a whirlpool of thoughts that remained confined, perhaps, until she had the guts to pen them. Ashok asserts that "there is no news" of "the volcano that fought her own anger." She confirms that there is no clue of the roads either, which are "born to lead the lost." In this collection, a quandary prevails-whether or not to air grievances, or whether or not to keep issues wrapped. Ashok's concern is also evident for "the man who drilled his chest for songs " Her discontent is palpable, especially for the acute lack of documentation of the children who sew "village to life." Absence of understanding upsets Ashok-"How can distance / be ever beaten into leather / and made into a pair of shoes? // My feet hurt, you know? / I have walked so far / that these animals around / seem unknown." She probes her loneliness to come up with stunning realizations: "The violin didn't work for me, so I shelved it in my memory. But since memory was absorbing too much of its music, the violin ended up in his hands. It likes to be played with, unlike me. My lovers always complained that I can never make a good toy." Waiting for the Helicopter holds Ashok's revelations of her inners and that of the world she inhabits.