“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 “.