A Kashmiri lament
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BALJIT MALIK
The iris still grows in our graveyards,
the saffron still sprouts in our fields,
the chinaar, cherry and apple
still blaze with colour in autumn and spring;
Our meadows are still green with sweet pasture,
our mountains still feed our rivers and lakes
with their brooky music and poetry;
But,
as for India and Pakistan,
their governments, if not their people,
have bathed our land in blood and deceit,
they have brought the devil
into the daily grain, the very fibre of our lives;
Indeed, a time shall dawn
when the Kashmiri iris shall grow in the graves and brains
of those who sought to destroy the blossoms in our soul.
On the Dal
Marshmallow marigold
wildwater lily
Lotus simply supreme
the imperial zabarwan... and
erosion erosion erosion
by the military-industrial
scramble
for resources precious,
for resources made
shamelessly pitiable.
Our Bleeding Hearts
Our hearts bleed
for these jawaans,
for these loose-tongued
doosron kee zabaan ke
ghulam;
Our hearts thump with
remorse
for their stilted, sulky
morose selves;
Our hearts are astounded
by their blind mandate
to gun – cannon – lacerate
torture... to carry out
blind orders from blind officers,
their blinder mentors;
Our hearts bleed
for their sacrifice, the balidaan
of their families
themselves victims of
the silly-bloody homilies
of two follies-in-enmity
called India and Pakistan.
In Every Home of Kashmir
These years the shawl,
our fruit and rice fields,
our dexterous skills of
needle ‘n’ thread and
spinning and weaving
have been our saviours;
We have our honey,
we needed no Gandhi to tell us
how to blend sweetness
with the bitter pill of militancy;
We needed, indeed
we need no Gandhi
to confront Indo-Pakistani
theft and dacoity... for
We have embroidered into
our soul
our history of the lost tribes,
of Christ, Islam, our
Rajatarangini and Lawrencian capacity
to understand our heritage in its
entirety;
Indeed, we need no Gandhi,
or nuclear cum conventional
follies of policy
to deliver us from
this our present, our
daily misfortune and tragedy;
For not only do we have our
sher and bakra,
our Abdullah roots, our Islamic zeal,
we have, too, in our chest
our grenade of piety, warmth,
compassion and energy...
our own, our very own
Our very loving and earthy
our gentle and fiery, black-brown ‘n’
earthen kaangri.
Don’t bleed don’t die don’t cry
for Kashmir,
only polish-dry your guns
for posterity to forgive,
not forget nor decry,
don’t bleed don’t die
don’t cry for K’mir
only sweat and try
to carry your sins ‘n’ burden
with that sweet smell of failure
turning into a slow climax
of a distant difficult
paradise.
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