Skip to main content

Death of a Mother

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. He died later in the hospital. But it seems she is yet to accept the fact. I ask Shammema, " how old was Asif ?" She mumbles but does not say anything. I make out from the neighbors that he was younger than 18 and worked to feed his mother and his siblings. I ask her how many kids she had; she tries to remember and calculate but the answer eludes her.

Her neighbors tell me, that she had five children. Her elder son too works as a Denter but the others are very young.

Two years ago Shammema's husband had died of cancer. He was a tailor by profession who had a small shop in Maisuma. But after his death she was forced by circumstances to move to a two-room rented accommodation in Mehjoor Nagar.

Asif had come to visit his friends in his old locality when a verbal spat between the police and residents led to a ding dong battle. As soon as the police fired the tear gas shells, Asif was hit. He was taken to the SMHS hospital, where people did not allow the police to take his dead body for post-mortem.

Shammema was brought to Maisuma by her old neighbors who are looking after her, for now. I take leave as women around me began wailing afresh but Shammema is impassive.

I have tears in my eyes as I leave Maisuma, but this time it's not tear gas.

Comments

zodiac said…
we need more young kashmiris like tasim....

so that the world comes to know....
so that history does not only record the version of the powerfull.....

so that the cries of the innocent dont get lost in the din of war...

so that the future generations of kashmiris know what actually happened
zodiac said…
we need more young kashmiris like tasim....

so that the world comes to know....
so that history does not only record the version of the powerfull.....

so that the cries of the innocent dont get lost in the din of war...

so that the future generations of kashmiris know what actually happened

Popular posts from this blog

Indigo Halls of Imagined Gods

In the indigo halls of Imagined Gods of Love, Lovers leave half burnt letters of incense and trails of broken hearts - Among ruins of shattered Love knots, she sits alone Weaving a rosary out of Thin air With longing as its thread and Beads made out of tears -- In the Indigo halls of Imagined gods of Love, The walls conspire and whisper Into her ears Telling tales of unfaithful loves And unrequited desires -- The rags of threads once Tied at the Astans of Hamdan, Lie at her feet, as she sits alone Knitting desolation from the whispers To sacrifice at the altars of the imagined Gods of love 

Zulaikha’s Lament

Blotted and Stained Like blood on apples, My reputation remains in tatters After these years But what was a woman to do? -- He had the face of An angel His shoulders, A sculptors dream His eyes, spoke a million languages his lips, like daggers driven apart -- I grew outside of Cairo Unloving father and sad mother Sold me for a goat and   A bag of gold To the first merchant who They came across -- My Husband, Kind, Generous man Made me his wife And put me along with Thirteen others -- My Husband, Kind Generous man Kept me happy Visited me twice a month Blessing me with His drunken kisses and Impotent rage -- I was never sad What more could A woman want? Lots of wealth and An impotent husband Sex was a chore The price of being so glad -- Then he came Chained and covered with dust Another man from the Slave traders den He stood at the gate Neither sad nor in jest Even at a distance...

Torn Poster

You stare at me From that torn poster Like the protagonist of Some sad Palestinian film Your eyes, a blaze of Rebellion, your still breath Glazing all fear Striping everything away Making me swear The impossibility of my Love for you never Stuck me till it was Too late in the day I keep replaying In my mind, like A broken record set on fire, All scenarios and solution To this quagmire Unrequited love, you once Said was too much To bear, now that I am here I see what you meant You wrote letters of love But they were never addressed To me, The man who got them Set them ablaze even Before he read the tears Gazelles and dogged mirrors All lie broken at the feet Of an imagined world, even as You stare at me From that torn poster --