Tasenda

As soon as I think of you old friend, I cry. I wail that I never knew you I never will know you now But you left a volume under the window sill I wonder who it was for ? I wish I knew you old friend So that you and I could take a long walk Along the bund you so loved We would talk of birds and their songs Of Lorca and his qasidas Of Faiz and your eternal love, begum Akhter And one day we you would talk to me about Rizwan But we will never take that walk now, old friend You had promised you would die in autumn, in Kashmir . But you died in winter Far away from Kashmir . Why did you break your promise? Old friend, But we shall meet again, …… (For the beloved witness)

Imran Qayoom would have turned 26 this October, but a CRPF bullet and lathis ensured that the only brother of two sisters would never see another birthday. A black flag, hung over the gate of his under construction home in the Bagh-e-Mehtab area, announces silently that Saturday will mark the 40th day of Imran’s death. Imran died on the 12th August along with 11 others who were victims of police and CRPF firing on that day, the day after authorities had imposed a curfew following the death of Hurriyat leader, Sheikh Abdul Aziz during the ‘Muzzafarbad Chalo’. At the time Imran was shot he was standing on the main road along with his friends watching the CRPF battle with pro-freedom protesters hardly hundred meters from his home. His friend, Suhail who was with Imran at that moment says, “ We were watching the protesters. When suddenly the CRPF started firing from one end of the road to another end. I looked to my side and saw that Imran was covered in blood, but he was still breathing.

I should have done have done this a long time ago. In the last three (or is it four) days of curfew. I have been intending to write. But I have made up some brilliant excuses to excuse my self from writing. I have been playing games on my ancient computer or else I have been reading about superheroes and comic books on the internet. And once in a while, I check out the death toll. There is something which is gnawing at my heart. Every night, I hear sounds in the distance. They sound like women and children screaming. To shut their voices I talk to my half sleepy friends on the phone till I am bored to the point of exhaustion and fall asleep. But even in my sleep the voices are not shut out. They invade my dreams and my thoughts. I am dream that I am trying to set up a date and then suddenly without a warning, the dream changes, I am being chased in a dark alley which has no end. I cannot see what is chasing me, but its closing on me. As that thing grabs me, cold sweat breaks out

Enter Ward No 16 of historic SMHS hospital here in troubled times where countless patients lie with bullet hits with anguish of one getting suppressed on seeing the resilience of other. In this non-descript ward lie Farooq Ahmed from Bandipore; Nazir Ahmed from Sumbal; Gowhar Bhat from Dalgate and Rouf Majeed from Sangrama. All of them have bullet wounds and suffering from tear smoke trauma. The ward has twelve beds and four of them have people with bullet injuries. In one corner of the ward, second year student, Rouf Majeed sits alone. “My father has gone down to get something,” he explains. “I was a part of a 2000 strong protest at Sangam. When we reached near the CRPF camp, suddenly someone from the CRPF side started firing. I was running when a bullet hit me in my back. Then I ran holding my chest for some time until I passed out. I don’t remember anything after that,” he said. Doctors say that Rouf has a pistol wound. “It’s a short range weapon injury probably a pistol woun

WITNESS Muhammad Tasim Zahid Srinagar, Aug 3: I have tears in my eyes as I enter Maisuma. The remnants of tear gas sting my eyes. Police is standing at a distance as protestors, mostly teenagers, shout at me to close the lights of my Bike. I comply as the group tries to burn a truck tyre on the road. As men in the roads swear vengeance, the women wailed silently and quietly in an old school building. I climb the narrow stairs of the school and enter a room which a sign declares as assembly room. The room is full of women as someone points me to an women who is hardly in her late 30's. Her cheeks are pale and drawn but she is hardly in the room. Neither the oaths of vengeance nor the silent wails of women seem to have an effect on the young widowed mother of Asif Mehraj, Shammema. She is sitting almost impassively among the women. As Women around her wail, her pale face grows darker. A teargas shell hit the heart of Shammema's 16 year old son during the protests.

I wish you were here Shahid. My hands fail me again tonight. As the night gnaws at my heart and everything becomes dark. I try to remember your lines again. But my memory betrays me again. I can't remember anything. I am not dead, Shahid. I am sure of that because even death cannot be so depressing. I am sure I am in a prison cell because the walls feel cold like stone. Stones, which are as cold as the hands of death. It's been years since I have seen light come through that window on my windowsill. It has been dark since years now. I have lost count of the years. Perhaps it has not been years but perhaps the days have been too dismal. It is hard to think coherently these days. Shahid. I sometimes have hallucinations. I see men walking with their heads on a pike. I see men with hollow eyes and empty smiles. The men seem familiar, they all look like me Shahid, I am scared