Spring and suffering.

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 ?

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Prisoner of the night!

In the strong milieu of blasphemy one can survive, but in the ambient of violence one can’t ~Imam Ali(as) ~

Criess waft,

from the forgotten land, And

Perish in the stoney heart of this night.

Nothing remains. Again,

my life disappears,

through the darkest prisons of the night.

Night ! with the crowded clouds accompanying it,

strides from house to house,

in the stillest tomb of its heart,

buries the life of each house.

All famished was it of ages ,

for it devoured alive the moon, stars,

and the sun ,

Vast like a desert is it,

So i find of these none.

Ours is the tree of sorrow,

Nursed by the night with a mild care,

Never its breaths languish ever,

in each season it revives its might.

In this windowless prison,

Am feasted the platefuls of ash,

In its deep dark corners,

i only here of but my countrys’ crash.

Heartless is the night,

that gives me naugh to collect,

other than the exploits of my own self.

Tyrant is the night but great,

that gives birth to a thousand nights a moment.

Eternal Night .

The souls cry,

in the eternal night,

Cries die in the darkness of night,

Happiness is ruined in the unbroken cycle of night .

Papers burn, on carving,

the atrocity of this night,

Clouds crowd in the heavens’ eye ,

The vague moon of this night too begins to die .

Faintness floods ashore,

Of psyches, drowned to death,

The souls stream their life in God’s way,

longing to hear the moon singing the song in the sky .

Psychological trauma.

“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, consumed by its own memories . It is a stiff tangle of yowls and heartsore screams born in each 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 sons and obituaries, eyes and wounds. It is an infinite, engrossing string 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- restrospective death Which has its deep roots in Kashmir. The enormity being survived by the extant reign holds its sway not 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 that doesn’t let the time make a place for our existence that turns up as a disaster without the peace.We are not let be the children,nor human. There are a lot of children in Kashmir but miserably little childhood. We are of long settled to stasis. Let us be the children of peaceful world we long for. Neither, make peace a figment of imagination 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 eyes .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.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 “.

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.