Skip to main content

Betrayals

We would sit across  
each other ,  you would  
look suspiciously at me 
'you came all the way to  
see me', you would say 
in that sweet dulcet tone   

'I came all the way to see  
you, from the country without 
a post office', I would blurt out 
and then immediately regret    
quoting you to you 

I would examine the wrinkles  
of your face, expecting you to 
say 'you fool, go away, don't quote me  
to me, so much of a cliche' 
but instead you would smile and 
say 'father said you write' 

I would mumble and you would  
say, 'you might write but you  
can't speak except, it seems in clichés' 

I would flush and you would smile 
and say that's ok  
we are all allowed to be 
fools in our own way   

you would order a Miller lite 
I would stick to a Virgin Cuba 
libre, (with diet coke please) 
'one of those aren't you ' 

'_£÷,÷' I would say 

'speak up, young man. This is 
America, not Srinagar 
people aren't hung for speaking yet' 

'yes, one of those' I would whisper   

you would look at me and  
say , '.. 

But you wont say anything, 
will you, you never will 
you betrayed me just   
like life betrayed you 

You died before my time, 
and I died before life

Life betrayed you
Time Betrayed me 




--

(For Shahid, as always)



Comments

Popular posts from this blog

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

Surviving Kashmir

In Kashmir Tragedy doesn't strike you,  It seeps inside you, like a malignant disease  Slowly making its way to your brain,   Disintegrating your mental faculties,  one by one.  Taking you apart one minute at a time,  making happiness  A sepia picture that grandfather  Put up on the wall of the ancestral house,   That is now just a road,  with every passing car Raising dust over your family tree,  the room where  You once crawled,  teeming with unruly pedestrians,   Grounding your memories to mere dust,  walking by  an invisible house with blue windows and tin sheeted gate. In Kashmir,  tragedy doesn't seek you,  it survives you.

Chapter 9: Madness

I hold onto the ledge of sanity by the edges of my fingernails polishing a tune that i heard long ago on radio Kashmir, sandwiched between propaganda and farmer's show, where they taught how to sow blood in fields of saffron to reap a harvest of dead bodies mutilated with joy and skinned alive by bayonet edges and threshed by a machine made of army boots I hold onto the ledge of sanity by edge of my fingernails playing an imaginary santoor, made by the last santoor master of Srinagar, its wires made of Human tendons and its small wooden hammers, bones of young poetess its fickle frame crushed bone of orphaned children trafficked from mortared houses into army camps disguised as play grounds I hold onto the ledge of sanity by edges of my finger nails dreaming about refuge in the asylum of ugly emperors and handsome beggars hiding behind masks of iron, smelted by gunpowder made behind the mosque made of stone, where th...