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

Some Other Time

 We will be counting days again, till we say hello again— only for us to say goodbye again. We always knew we’d have to say our goodbyes one day. Then why does it hurt so? Even so, when we know it won’t be long before even goodbyes are a luxury. We cling to hopes— that this isn’t the only life we will live. That one day, we will meet again, in some other life, in some other time, where we won’t have to say   G oodbye.

Undelivered Package

There is an uprising coming it was supposed to be here yesterday but I suppose it is lost in the mail who do I write to the website had no address only a small warning goods once sold can not be returned maybe I should have known then not to trust Nigerian princes with unclaimed millions and fully functional revolutions leftover from the days of the next war Maybe it is stuck at customs maybe it would have been better to wait for my cousin to travel in, so he could sneak it in packed neatly between airport  toblerone and contraband iphones

In Barely Discernible Darkness

I will trace the Jhelum Across Your back with my fingers In barely discernible darkness It will form a paisley Drawn from the memory of An imagined Kashmir No language spoken by Man or Gods shall be Uttered that night Words will be melded, Sentences molded to form A new language of love The ink, a fine powdered Amethyst, shall dry as We write its grammar The quill tips, fashioned From old bones, shall Burn in its blaze The room will be Full of scorch marks In barely discernible darkness -- Tz