Letter to a dead poet

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

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Its Scary

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....

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