We must not mourn but yearn.

“If i see my city as beautiful and bewitching, then my life must be so too, [ Orhan pamuk ] ” —Istanbul: Memories and the city .

Now , I have psychologically been crinkled to such a high and terrible extent that i plaintively fizzle recalling the times with no horrors , loathing and heart-throbbing pains. My psyche is sentenced in a windowless lock up . Am dumb . My bones are fragile. Frail. A wave of strangeness oscillates round me. Mind is a stiff tangle of yowls and heartsore screams born in each other others crags. It is a damaging junk of chaotic images and scenes, of different things but bursting from the same intensive fountain – Kashmir. Junk, of blood and bullet, mother and son, shells and darkness , coffins and fathers, silences and clamours and eyes and wounds. Shrouded is it of the eternal night of death. It is an infinite, engrossing thread of stories unheard of world. We are rooted in the predicamental epoch in which desolation stays on us like an abrupt change in weather. A sort of forlorness that is intangible, though. Like the presence of a pang where we cannot pinpoint precisely where it strikes but we know it does. Obviously, such scary times do bed upon the throne of Kashmir, which has receeded its inhabitants to the food of their own traumatic memories. Factually, a spell has landed deep into the fractured minds of Kashmir, in which they have to clash their own memorable chronicle rather than the savage arm of Government. As sometimes all you need are just events of your history to live, survive and exist , but, at times, vile occurs, you hate your history for there is a thing which ceases you from living- the death on retrospection, Which has its deep roots in Kashmir. The enormity being survived by the extant reign has not its sway only over the Kashmirs’ tract but noxiously on the amputated minds of Kashmir where death resides the only panacea to escape the perennial Buzz and plague of conflict. This plague leaves the whole Kashmir, chiefly, we the children-folk in the torment of exotism. We are not let be the children,nor human. There are a lot of children in Kashmir but miserably little childhood. Let us be the children of peaceful world we long for. Neither, make peace a figment of fantasy here, nor, count it a bitter evil . It is something which sprouts a being, heals the maimed and uplifts the crippled. We have discerned a lot of macabre bloodletting thus far. No catastrophe sits unnoticed and undone to our eyes. What else you want us to chance upon know? Nothing remains. Everything is finished. Mother has hastened to amass the scattered shreds of his son. Yet, some remained unfound. One’s world has gone blind. He seats your stigma instead of orbs .Aren’t even these tragedies besetting to you? Perhaps, you believe there is no shame in war. But, no, war doesn’t negate decency. It demands it, even more than in times of peace. ~Khalid Hosseini. But, yes, the men having no conscience do never suffer for their falsification. As Russian Novelist, Fyodor dostoevesky rightly puts “ If you have a conscience, you will suffer for your mistake, that will be your punishment as well as prison”. So according to such a philosophical view, we ought to not regret being harmed, since a blind man knows not whether he offers the glass of water or poison. Though ,we have to yearn for the Pacific life continually. Regretting and grieving has been an explicit ridiculous in the places like Kashmir. As famous Pakistani writer Bilal Tanweer makes an insightful telling, which precisely fits to the natures of Kashmir “ Grieving is only possible when you know that you have come to an end, when there is nothing more to follow. You can’t even grieve, because you know it will happen again may be in a way that is worse than before. It took a moment for me to realise i was the same in some sense. I hadn’t yet grieved for my father”. So don’t mourn these deaths, streaming blood, since it is a certain cataclysmic part of your future. Whilst scanning the seductive majesty of Kashmir sunken to the bottom of blood. Whilst scanning our bodies being inhumanely crammed under the clumps of trash, I just recall pablo neurda, saying “ Oh ! People, you will question me, why i don’t write things about the lilacs and other beautiful things of my city ?
Come and see the blood in the streets,
Come and see the blood in the streets,
Come and see the blood in the streets “.

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Silently.

I silently crash,

Like an amazing night of Kashmir.

silently strangle,

As the wonderful dream of Kashmir.

Die an “unmouurned” death of Kashmir.

I silently vanish ,

Like the spilling blood of Kashmir,

Silently Madden,

As a lover of Kashmir,

Am an “unheard” story of Kashmir,

I silently wonder, wander,

Like the mother of Kashmir.

Silently bleed,

As the mortal orb of Kashmir.

Am a “shattered” mirror of Kashmir.

I silently expire,

Like an unsung song of Kashmir.

Silently flare,

As the spared heart of Kashmir.

Am an “unconsoled” pang of Kashmir.

I silently merge,

Like the sensational longing of Kashmir.

Silently thaw,

As the bloody mirth of Kashmir.

Am a ” burning” hell of Kashmir.

Am a scattered soul of Kashmir !

Like tattered papers.

Like spruced, tattered papers,

It falls down its womb smirking,

As an unsparing king. Callous .

It invades entire the planet.

As it aspires, in brute mores-

the throne of wonderful earth,

Stillness dispels like a loudspoken voice,

Morphs the singing globe to a wordless mouth.

Nests crash under the kings’ might,

become the graves of their own members,

Oh ! Doomsday befalls the craven birds,

Like a harsh night o’er the frail mother of Kashmir.

Lives mourn and mourn,

the wrenchingly fall of sun,

Like mother mourns the gash of her son,

Mouths whisper to each other,

When would it come ?

Kashmir & life .

Kashmiris have become habituated to these encounters ( chiefly known for causing collateral damages rather than catching the militant ) to such an extent that people will preferably opt having dinners in the other porition of the same room where militants are trapped in and the cordon of earthen-clusters has functionally been managed outside.

Itz Kashmiri modus-vivendi , entirely different. Strange.

The half-widow !

The half-widow !

She twists the Globe round her sockets,
unfolds it, feels it overalls !
Yet ! Her vision discerns not ,
Him upon the skins of world !
Her crestfallen Goblet flood-tides,
It souses into forlorn waters,
Her nights and days drown,
Down the eternity of these waters .
Like an Autumn leaf. Torn .
She shakes with desertic veins,
Perishes over the stolid planet,
Tempest over tempest.
Make her uninvited guest,
of strangest backwoods . Exotics !
Her Dreams fade in the smokes of time ,
collets them in a mad sense,
Only handfuls of deceit gets she,
thumped by the world on she .
Alone she feels. Becomes .
midst the densest crowds,
Thinks ! The planet is keenly swept,
Of all the children it gave birth to .
Unrealized ! whole the armoire of dreams,
expiring with strangles of time,
This armoire– unbolted of eternity,
becoming another wound in her story.
Never can she,
Entomb her history in the oblivion-
Has become another self in her,
the self that will breath,
when even she is swallowed by the earth.
No footfall of hope in her house of heart ,
Though ! she persists, like a wind
She enters the houses of world-
Remarking them as the empetiest rooms .
The procession of miseries barge past her,
She hurries into covert streets. Alleys .
Mad she has become. Mad .
In the love of aversion of the world.

Beloved of nights, she is .
Beloved of dusks,she is .
Estranged by the days. She is .
In a dawnless world, She is .

She wonders .
Quests her crumpled self ” oh my self ! Does my own shadow walk with me at least ?

@Muneer Hussain Dar.

Student ; Taking large swigs from pol-science. Little sips from literatures.