A Seed of remorse don’t kill my contempt

There is more to the word rebel than what culminates at the façade of an incident and which is shown religiously every day in the news. Whether or not they show, the rebel instincts will not seize in us because it is us who have kept the tradition of oral transfer of pain alive and upheld the values of “death for justice”. It is bestowed on us by our fore fathers that we strive for the betterment. Interestingly when I sit down in one of those dark rooms of my house whose windows are cut deliberately in the direction of Shah Hamdam Shrine, so that I never forget that truth and justice shall prevail. If that hasn’t sufficed, many of us have called for the best portraits of the Kaba, so that the sight of it fills us with hope. What not have we done so far to breed and survive idealism but all seems to be falling short to make us stand for what we believe in.

It fills me with pain like all others when I see innocent blood spilled like that; we have used blood to cultivate our trees and greenery. The beauty of Kashmir is upheld and serene because it has swallowed human flesh. It grows blood red roses to please all. For every rose a life it takes. You can’t count the roses in Kashmir nor can you the lives we sacrificed. Have we ever attempted to marry the two different identities of Kashmir? If we did so, it would be a beautiful mother who survives on its own children’s blood.

“Gas Karmak Khodayas Hawala” said my mother and for a minute my heart is stilled at the thought that God himself is going to accompany me, but it crushes me to see mothers don’t mean to bestow protection on kids anymore. They watch at a distance and one after the other the kids seep down the death well at the call of a ‘paid piper’. I must have died a long time back or it is a hallucination that has caught me or you. How many times should I be caught in the same treacherous realization of being a subject and muster the courage to go through what I have been, all over again?

I succumb to the might just as when I was frail, but hopeful. Now life has endorsed me to the realization of being strong and helpless at the same time. What could it be, my heart a pale heavy stone locked in a tender walled chest bumping as the screams got closer, the ‘Daen’ haunts me, compelling my father forever to stand by my side and put our best knives under my pillow. The most absurd joke done to any nation was Daen, sponsored by the occupiers, equipped with steel bodies, she didn’t just scare children but all alike. I remember ‘Prina’ a footballer was nailed down by her in the foot ball ground in one of those 1990's chilling winters. Daen ate young people of Kashmir and looks like she is hungry for more and here comes the news that she has penetrated her teeth in a son’s throat. Daen is the adversary to my beautiful mother Kashmir

I tremble with the same fear and helplessness overwhelms my conscience. Pain must end somewhere unless it is a stream, or a lake or an ocean. Than there must be no rescue for the plight we have or it must rent asunder the surroundings, because streams will become lakes, and lakes will flood. God’s promise is just, let it be an ocean and the land beneath will tremble and set the oceans to fight the cause pristine.