Winter climbed down the throne of universe and coronated the spring to aspire. The season when new hopes are born, yet old linger and revive. The season which injects in us a curiosity for survival, as is its phenomenal milieux which surpasses the rest. As, English philosopher – Bernard william rightly puts ” The day Lord created hope was probably the same day he created spring”. It romanticizes the notions of existence, heals the maimed and uplifts the crippled. In Shakespearean terms” April— hath put the spirit of youth in everything “. Yet, a question arises! Can springs’ seductive candour rivatilize a mother who has happened to bulk up the scattered bodily shreds of his son, though some remained unfound? Is it hopeful to a father who has engraved the obituary of his son upon his heart? Is it youthful to a sister who has brewed a tea for his brother who returned back clothed of bullets? Answer ought to be NO. Since a fleck of bliss can’t blot out the mountain of sorrows but a mountain of bliss can can be expunged by the fleck of sorrow. It is what has wrapped kashmiris in its fold, who house a junk of chaotic and ever-flashing visions of battered past which can’t let them gape and feel seasons visiting and vanishing. The post-traumatic baffling disorders, of fear, uncertainty, premonition and psychosis and claustrophobia has left no space in us to visualize things apart. ” What the dead leave behind is a personal archaeology. There is some history in that, a memory of an absence that lasts longer than a day and night, an absence that lasts many days and nights”~ Dunya Mikhail . We are shrouded in the eternal night of death, shrunken into the food of our own memories. Looking back into the past, all we see is a miasma of darkness, unnamed voices thundering in our ears and countless scars afresh, landing with each dawn and piling up with each dusk–the cycle is the cruelly carking Buzz life hear has to feel till the brute cuffs grow rust and crack-up.Some wounds never heal, some cries desert your ears never, some scenes become a part of your eyes. It’s what sums our existence up.The memories clamp down a seige to our psyches to constrict them from thought to sobs. The thick cloak of desolation broods over everything, and everything, like streets, azzans, hands of clock make a symbloical value in us—gazing into the sky is a tragedy, strolling through the streets tragedy and meeting anyone a bigger tragedy. Every crumb has its tragic story in Kashmir. Thus in this glowing hearth of quagmire seasons die and live unnoticed like us. We are rooted in far too a predicamental epoch in which despair abides in us like an abrupt change in weather. A sort of forlorness that is intangible, though. Like a presence of a pang where we can’t pinpoint where it socks but we know it does. Huge soaring tuft of agonising images tangle in the mind– the tuft of blood and bullet, mother and son, silences and clamours, fathers and obituaries and eyes and wounds. This all substantiates that our future will be selfsame as our past filled of life-consuming poisons. So we can’t even grieve. For grieving is only possible when we know that morbidness has come to a real halt and there is nothing more to undergo now. We can’t grieve, as we know it will happen again may be in a way that is very macabre than before . The life seems a death here and death a life. Beyond the things existing here there is no mystery but a naked pain laughing upon our dead laughter and rapture. Our existence is a nebula made of fume of sighs and tears. It is a story unheard, a death unlamented.
Bottomline: ours are stories not springs, stories about dead springs. Unfelt. We pass these Stories down from one gen to other–the chain of years. Ours are not blossoms of seasons, but seasons with no burgeoning blossoms. Where does spring breath, i don’t catch; was it born, or dead before its birth ?