The Atrocious Afflictions

From back when I wanted to ski,

Among snow clad mountains and deodar trees.

When Kashmir smelt of rosewood pine,

And not of military men in line,

Silencing the uproar of those who speak,

Of Azaadi and a free Kashmir.

The empty streets and closed tin shutters,

Reminisce of a time when there was more than just the hustle,

Of crushed newspapers,

In cul de sacs,

When laughter lines decorated the visage.

And everyone at large,

Was not veiled in grotesque masks and facades.

The sight of young children standing in a file,

Their voices hushed and bodies so fragile.

With stones in their hands they silently croon,

"Allahu Akbar" in their prayers at noon.

Their mothers desperately wish to see,

Their two year olds smiling with glee.

Their twelve year olds running kites,

Smothering lambs in starry nights.

Their twenty year olds with a youthful stride,

A peaceful life,

Guided by purpose,

And not a vengeful fight,

Over the attainment of a piece of land that everyone calls theirs,

From neighbouring nations, fellow countrymen, political leaders and their heirs.

For a soil this worshipped and rightfully so,

There are quite a few of those we know.

Who'd want to live their lives,

Not in stark terror of men in disguise,

Constantly probing them to sin,

Against a people who are their next of kin.

Their clandestine concoction of bloody wars,

Does nothing to solve a problem,

That has long since been called,

Unfathomable,

By the virtue of its cause,

But mostly by men who do not wish to absorb,

That Kashmir revels in the magnificence of Chinar,

Standing high and might tall,

And not in the religious walls,

So unabashedly drawn,

Under which so many have mourned,

The demise of a love long gone.

Their ailing sentiments continue to jeer,

When humanity pleads me to simply,

want to hear,

That the land of Santoor which enamours us by its charm,

Is a confluence of three great religions

Hinduism, Buddhism and Islam.

The endowment of the sobriquet of paradise,

Should be incentive enough to rid ourselves of the cardinal vice

Of greed,

Of vicious wants we so conveniently call needs.

For a paradise incessantly dealt in bloodshed and grime,

Ceases to enchant and stands demolished and atrociously undivine.