MY IDOL:: PRAMATH MALIK

MY IDOL:: PRAMATH MALIK
HE NEVER SHOWED ME A PATH TO FOLLOW BUT ALWAYS INSPIRED ME TO MAKE ONE FOR MYSELF!!

Wednesday, November 26, 2008

CURFEWED NIGHT

The stories in Kashmir are never good either they are ambiguous,disdain or very sad.
Bashrat peer lines are very simple yet true to an extent of brutality.
I recently picked up a book from new friends colony,adjacent to the famous AL-bake with a sole motive of time pass but turned out to be a mind psychedelic revelation.
The book is lavishly unencumbered by jargon.Though the author being a journalist lacks the spice of entertainment. 
In fact at times the book seems to be crammed with facts that it is on the brink of swallowing your patience as a reader and you say 
"easy boy easy". 
But within a split of second you realise that its not the boy's fault. He has seen so much happen in his childhood and his heart is eager to eject every ounce of pus that has been formed over years in the wounds for a reason that shouts you are a Kashmiri Muslim.
There are references that might leave you in tears.
A small incident where a daughter drops her pajama when her father in law asks her to open the window saying "KHOL DO" due to fear of being raped.
There are methods used by Indian army where they rape,kill,slaughter,kidnap and push children with landmine in their hand to jihadi bunkers.
Such is the explanations that it sometimes overshadow the popular and cherished claim of democracy and secularism.
Its beautifully hurtful.The voice of Kashmir seem so powerful that it almost dethrones every voice in you as an Indian and just a misty sense of self consciences is trying to breathe its final moments of
 "PROUD TO BE AN INDIAN".
Truly amazing,sarcastically poetic and very engrossing.
A must read for every humanitarian soul alive in this country that has a state bought for seventy five lakhs called 
KASHMIR 

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

Dance of life

The sand blew and the clouds grew.

Was it raining or the sky was mourning.

His dad threw him out,

Lost and lonely he walked the silent path,

Silent yet melancholy, melancholy yet not pitiable. 

Lad was sobbing, sobbing made him shudder.

The shuddering was the dance of life......

 

Known to the known, yet very unknown 

Reached the marsh, marsh was  dry.

Tears streamed down the eyes.

Dryness soaked in his tears.....

Marsh was again alive

Tears that were for dad, dad suffocated his childhood.

Darker than darkest, he saw faces.

Faces that were painted, painted in black, grey and blue

But white faces were very few.

People rushed with cold vibes in zigzag.

Avoiding a collision with him.

The pattern of avoidance was dance of life.....

 

 

Wolves howling, caricatures climbing,

The artist in boy learnt to make faces.

Faces black, grey and blue.

Those asking for white were very few....

Winter came early in life, life brought calm.

Calmness spread its sheet in the life.

Boy smoked, drank and was making merry...

But he craved for faces; faces not grey black and blue...

But for white those only were very few.

The desires and dreams still existed in dreams.

Huh.....The dance of life.

 

Always painting in his cottage, cottage locked.

Lock tight, keys thrown in the river,

Some river cried...streams of white water rushed downstream.

There were knocks, knocks to be avoided.

Some called for him, others respected his seclusion,

Others were furious and abused...

But what for the knocking was the dance of life??

 

Knock knock..

One was the coldest knock ever,

The artist raised his eyes,

He knew death had come, to ease him.

To release him.

Take him to where he truly belong...

He threw all his painted faces...

Water from the river spilled all over.

It was horrible....

The death clasped him....

This was the dance of life....

 

People still come to make faces...

Faces black grey and blue...

But the one with white are few.....