poem on summer in kashmir
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I have grown up in the maze of barbed wire, in curfewed days and nights, amidst clatter and whoosh of tear gas. Listening to spraying of bullets to bangs of explosives.
My movement, communication, assembly has been proscribed from time to time and the very sustenance of life like the air I breathe, the food, milk, medicine has been cut off.
Cut off by the “worlds largest democracy.”
It is like someone has wrapped a noose on my head leading me, nowhere, with a Gun on my temple. It is the story of Kashmir. But all these are periodical upsurges that may fizzle out with time, all you need is wait, wait and wait. And perhaps like in the past, there will be imposed normalcy and government propaganda machine going up and saying, “ everything is fine. Life is back to normalcy.” And all the months will go underneath a new commotion and will lurk there only to be resurfaced.
My movement, communication, assembly has been proscribed from time to time and the very sustenance of life like the air I breathe, the food, milk, medicine has been cut off.
Cut off by the “worlds largest democracy.”
It is like someone has wrapped a noose on my head leading me, nowhere, with a Gun on my temple. It is the story of Kashmir. But all these are periodical upsurges that may fizzle out with time, all you need is wait, wait and wait. And perhaps like in the past, there will be imposed normalcy and government propaganda machine going up and saying, “ everything is fine. Life is back to normalcy.” And all the months will go underneath a new commotion and will lurk there only to be resurfaced.
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