I am not a Fidayeen!????
The courtyard of my home is oft trodden by gunmen,
With fingers on the triggers and blood oozing through their eyes like rock,
The thud of homely willow bat has given way to rattle of the heavy rifles as of now.
The barbed wire fence and the rusted Iron Gate are as unfriendly as winter’s spine chilling winds, which dry out all our hopes.
The fear of death still lurks as The Sun relinquishes for another ordeal called “night”.
Slumber is orphaned only to walk barefoot, with weeping restless eyes, through the night of agony and turmoil. Ours are not ours and hopes are not often bestowed.
Faces marred with lines of anguish,
And Lotuses in the Dal are sad, for no one admires them.
No more could they be, for love of life, no more exists.
My home is not mine, like Gul Mohamed’s shikara was never his own.
I am not a fidayeen as I only know music.
I have a bleeding heart for fourteen years, so long.
All friends lost, just the paths acknowledge.
The childhood cheers and hurrahs echo in the near by deodar woods, to take me back in time.
For all those who are happy popping those grenades, I can sigh and appeal, let me in, it’s my home, my Kashmir!
I am not a fidayeen, I only know music,
And I am scared to say, I am a Kashmiri Pandit!
With fingers on the triggers and blood oozing through their eyes like rock,
The thud of homely willow bat has given way to rattle of the heavy rifles as of now.
The barbed wire fence and the rusted Iron Gate are as unfriendly as winter’s spine chilling winds, which dry out all our hopes.
The fear of death still lurks as The Sun relinquishes for another ordeal called “night”.
Slumber is orphaned only to walk barefoot, with weeping restless eyes, through the night of agony and turmoil. Ours are not ours and hopes are not often bestowed.
Faces marred with lines of anguish,
And Lotuses in the Dal are sad, for no one admires them.
No more could they be, for love of life, no more exists.
My home is not mine, like Gul Mohamed’s shikara was never his own.
I am not a fidayeen as I only know music.
I have a bleeding heart for fourteen years, so long.
All friends lost, just the paths acknowledge.
The childhood cheers and hurrahs echo in the near by deodar woods, to take me back in time.
For all those who are happy popping those grenades, I can sigh and appeal, let me in, it’s my home, my Kashmir!
I am not a fidayeen, I only know music,
And I am scared to say, I am a Kashmiri Pandit!
posted by amit at 1:47 AM
3 Comments:
send this work to panun kashmir guys...i am sure they will be happy to publish this...
thanks, but i felt that i had written this quite a while back, then the things were very much turbulent, now it seems tranquility is quietly descending on kashmir. now we are hearing about singers and cricketers and academicians from that land, certainly a welcome change, i would say. but, for a common man there, do these bilateral talks and so called " peace process" do really make any difference at all. only god knows!
Are you crazy? Obviously things will be better since all the Kashmiri Pandits have been driven out already...when there is no one left to terrorize, there will be no terrorism...go to panun kashmir website and see their pain and anguish...that will tell you a thing or two about the stark reality out there...they've been driven out and now they're living in other states in the vain hope that they will be able to go back to their homes some day...peace my ass, there can be no peace without justice being done to kashmiri pandits.
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