Tasenda

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 ...

I will sit one day again, on the hillock opposite Chrar, and look at it till it consumes me The fire that still rages in the mountains, Shall claim me then, even as I sit still unable to move Mesmerised by the beauty and purity of fire, Fire, whose fuel is men and stones, shall consume me Only to purify my stained heart, only so that I can sit one day again On the hillock opposite Chrar And look at it till it consumes me, again. I shall live again in the village of Dervishes, And in places, that do not, should not, exist I will whirl away my sorrows even as my sorrows whirl me, insignificant speck, away The wind will claim me, if only to abandon me to the village of dervishes, And in places, which do not, should not, exist. I will drink from the Spring of Hemal Even as the poison shall spread through me, I shall sing of Hejaz and Sheeraz The Thirst quenching virtue of water, shall Take over me as madness shall creep, And claim me again, so that I may drink again From the poisoned wate...

There is a void in me That I fail to fill in It’s a small hole, the size of a golf ball But it’s hard to fill in I think of you all the time now Of your blood stained shroud and your covered face I think of death all the time now Of your wound and my tears at the end There is a void in me That I fail to fill in You have put the void there, Old friend I never knew you when you were alive I wish I never knew you At least you would be alive and We would meet sometime along the Ganta ghar , I would pass you and never think of you again But you died and killed me with you There is a void in me That is hard to fill in (for Arif ayoub, killed 26 May 2009 by a police tear gas shell)

You know what I hate about writing for a paper. It seems to be a cheap form of prostitution. You prostitute your art for a few pennies. Your words instead of bodies. I mean whatever happened to art for art’s sake. But then people hardly think about art or even love these days. Unless if it is an piece of art that some bored millionaire has brought for an obnoxious amount of money or in case of love, it is laced with large doses unbridled lust. Think about it, half the praise that Dev D got was because the romance between Devdas and Paro was replaced by lust. When was the last time I wrote for myself. The strange thing is that I remember the exact time I did it. After being copped in my house for three (or was it four) days in the curfews of the summer of revolution. But I must have written hundreds even thousands of words since then, lending my pen to chicken rates, illegal buildings, bad roads, corrupt police men, nauseating politicians. But my soul is as empty as old parchment ...

19 years on the blood of Gawkadal massacre victims seems to have dried up, the only reminder that this road has been witness to Modern Kashmir's first massacre is a small tombstone. But , the tombstone usually remains hidden behind the auto-rickshaws that now stand guard at the spot.But the victims families and survivors of the massacre, still fight the memories of the massacre. For the many of the families, the fateful day of January remains as fresh as the yesterday's memories.To that end, despite fierce opposition from the state government, New Delhi appointed Jagmohan, an known forceful administrator, governor of the state. As a result, the state government, then lead by Chief Minister Farooq Abdullah resigned in protest, and the state went under President's rule.[6]On January 19, 1990, the night Jagmohan was appointed governor, Indian security forces conducted extensive, warrant-less, house-to-house searches in Srinagar, in an effort to find illegal weapons and root o...

In 1990 he was the man who had made the memorial for the Gawkadal martyrs and helped fix it at the crossing where 52 Kashmiris had were massacred by the CRPF in 1990. Today along side that small grave stone, is a tap which has inscription over it, which commentrates the life and death of Showkat Ahmed Khan.Showkat Ahmed Khan was a young man when had witnessed the Gawakadal massacre on Jan 21 1990. The massacre had changed the life of Showkat, he was so moved that he got a grave stone made and fixed at the Gowkadal crossing. In the initial days of the 1990's, Showkat along with the rest of the youth of the area were greatly inspired by the JKLF. The tombstone still has JKLF written at its bottom.But Showkat faced the same fate as the 52 people in 2002. On 12 March 2002, Showkat's body was found in Shalteng area, after he had been picked up by the Infamous STF. His father in law, Nazir Ahed says that Showkat's face had been almost split in the half by bullets.Showkat left a s...

As soon as I think of you old friend, I cry. I wail that I never knew you I never will know you now But you left a volume under the window sill I wonder who it was for ? I wish I knew you old friend So that you and I could take a long walk Along the bund you so loved We would talk of birds and their songs Of Lorca and his qasidas Of Faiz and your eternal love, begum Akhter And one day we you would talk to me about Rizwan But we will never take that walk now, old friend You had promised you would die in autumn, in Kashmir . But you died in winter Far away from Kashmir . Why did you break your promise? Old friend, But we shall meet again, …… (For the beloved witness)