Skip to main content

Last Night, I dreamt I was back home

Last Night, I dreamt I was back home,
In Kashmir.
I have’nt been able to sleep since.
With each passing day, each passing hour,
Kashmir seems to be fading into a distant memory.
Its reality of death and despair,
is slowly being replaced
By calendar photographs of sunsets over Dal lake.
The march of army boots is being replaced
by the pitter patter of rain on the roof my house, my home,
My Kashmir
Something deep inside me is changing,
a part of me is dying,
you know like that old withering flower on the windowsill
which you forgot to water.
There is strange stench in my memories, tonight
Like someone died and I forgot to bury him.
There is blood on my hands,
Did I Murder someone in my dream tonight,
Or did I simply commit suicide, Last night
Something burns in my heart tonight,
But It’s not fire,
Just smoldering remains of my dream,
Of my Kashmir.
All that remains are ashes and questions,
Dead men and women ask me,
When you cry in your dreams,
Do tears escape your eyes ?
Hollowed out faces and empty eyes
Are all that remain of that Half forgotten dream.
Last Night, I dreamt I was back home,
In Kashmir.

Comments

Unknown said…
Finallllllly finallllly....something that touches mere mortals like me ...nice one bro
Muzamil said…
Articulate, touching and rare, nice one Tasim. If you studied at AS college in Srinagar, do get in touch at virkulatgmail.com. Haven't heard from you in ages. Thanks.

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 --