Tag: bekal kalaam

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beautiful carpet spread that will be aazadi

The method is simple.
You ask a Nazi about Jews.
You ask Jew about Palestinian.
You ask Sunni about Shia.
Iran about Israel.
Israeli about Muslims.
Pakistani about Hindus.
Hindus about Muslims.
Brahmins about Dalits.
Rich about poor.
Poor about money.
Men about women.
Gods about women.
Women about modesty.
You will find the pricks.
Walk away, Left Compass will show the right way.
But, never ask a Kashmiri Muslim about Kashmiri Pandits.
“Ja… it was a conspiracy. k.”
Ignore
What’s a small lie in a stream of lies?
A little wrong knot in the beautiful carpet spread that will be aazadi.
Hush for now.
There’s a human struggle for truth and dignity going on.
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mathematics of loss

2008

I have done the maths,
the world is doomed.
I am told my ancestors were 
exploiters –
ticks,
the bloodsuckers.
They got land
and more land.
And then, lost it all
in 1990.
In middle of conflict,
a family of wood-cutters
bought our house.
They pulled apart the mud bricks and wood:
hundred year old deodar windows and doors.
A fortress in cement was built.
A sawmill in the middle.
I count the number of trees cut.
I have done the maths,
the world is doomed.
In Money.
What they paid us,
I now make in a month.
I run the maths on inflation.
Numbers hold.
I too shall build a fortress
I shall again count the number of trees cut.

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Untitled Post



Lal aaes wyethin [Lal Ded was fat]
ti 
Nund oos lean [Nund Rishi was lean]
what was the point
Batte ti Musalmaan [Hindus and Muslims]
voyn donvay kameen [now both rascals]


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Untitled Post

आज़ादी की चिलम का एक कश और ले
कश्मीरी
माल वही पुराना है
आ एक पीढ़ी और फूक दे

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Untitled Post



There is hope.
Still.
I bet there is still
one person in Kashmir.
Who still dreams
India will go Pakistan way
or better still
Pakistan will go India way
Before having these dreams he sings:
‘Either way Mouji Batt’e Sher! Kashmir will still be here.’


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कश्मीर बरबाद नहीं अलाहबाद हुआ 
हिन्द की लाल गंगा 
पाक काली यमुना से मिली 
अदृश्य सरस्वती हुई 
यहाँ पापो का हिसाब चल रहा है 
पितरो का बोझ ढोया जा रहा है


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Parable for Fools


In 2048, Dr. Doomdullah, after years of study, finally understood the true nature of his problem and why the obvious solution wouldn’t work. He wanted to know, ‘If 90% of humanity is trash, why not just be done with it?’ He found his answer in a lost work of parables from Kashmir known as ‘Concise Reshinama of Lost Souls’.

Parable 161

‘After years of observing the sad condition of the world in which he lived -the depravity of men, the vile and evil, Sanger Rishi came to the conclusion if a stone were to randomly drop from the sky and onto a random person, there is a good chance it would hit the head of someone deserving such divine retribution. To test his theory, one early morning Sanger Rishi started climbing the hillock of Kus-ha-sa-Maraan that overlooked the city. On reaching the highest point, he planned to pick a stone and hurl it down at the city. While trekking up the hill, strangest of thing happened: a stone from nowhere hit him on the head. He died. Mazar of Sanger Rishi came up at the spot. His epitaph read:

From my throne high up on
Parbat
every morning
Down below
I see him make his way to the temple,
the mosque, the shop, the job…
Every morning
I hurl down a pebble at his head
Every morning
my head hurts

Dr. Doomdullah understood the true meaning of the parable: you have to get to the top of the hill before anyone else does; hold fort.



Parable 143

Two men were fighting over truth. Each called the other a lair. Each had a dagger at the throat of other, ready to let the blood run and settle the matter. Prophetess Red Dead, who happened to be passing by, intervened. Taking piety on them, in all compassion, she took the daggers from them and casting a certain spell over the metal blades proclaimed, ‘This dagger of truth can now only pierce an untrue heart.’ She then returned the daggers to the two men. Divine daggers in hand, the two men lunged at each with a new righteous ferocity. It was over soon.

Dr. Doomdullah understood the true meaning of the parable: Hold onto your truth and let the blood flow.

Parable 157

The crowd gathered in the village square to begin stoning the condemned man. Prophet Yekusinsaan arrived at the scene and told all gathered people, ‘He who is without sin among you, let him be the one to throw the stones.’ Hearing this a seven-year old girl came forward and threw a small rock at the man. It caught the man’s head at a wrong angle, the condemned man died three days later in much pain.

Dr. Doomdullah understood the true meaning of the parable: Stop talking in parables.

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First page of the last Rajatarangini

1456.

Then there appeared a comet, a sign of calamity, extending over the sky with its tail towards the east. It was first seen by Vahramakhana. Its tail was like the bearded lance of death, and its wide extending form was seen even in the day time, towards the west. A mare in the king’s stable gave birth to twins, and the king, in order to remove the animal from the country, gave it away to the Yavanas. Lions and other animals of the forest wandered about during the day in Shrinagara town, a bitch gave birth to kittens. The Sadanandi tree, which had been barren, bore fruits and flowers grew on the roots of pomegranate trees near the palace. A rain of blood fell on the clothes that were in the garden, and when men saw this, they felt as if salt has been sprinkled on a wound.

In the the meantime the Hindus, excited to anger by Parna the barber, were guilty of severities on Saidakhana Agaha and others who were residing in the town. When the Yavans heard of this, they became angry and went to the king and lamented aloud, and the king ordered a persecution of the Brahmanas. In his fury the king cut off the arms and noses of Ajara, Amara, Buddha and others, and even those Brahmanas who were his servants. During this time of the pillage of the property of the Brahmans, that gave up their cast and dress and exclaimed, “I am not a Bhatta, I am not a Bhatta.”

1986

The comet again appeared in western sky, a sign of calamity, extending over the sky with its tail towards the east. It was first seen by Vinayak Razdan at Chanpore. The bearded lance of death now had a name: Halley. Pakistan needed four runs to win the match off the last ball, Javed Miandad hit a six off Chetan Sharma to win. Shers driven from the beautiful Golden temple, now roamed around Srinagar, ready to cross border. Bearded kids of downtown were seen always walking in trekking shoes, talking in whispers to moneyed agent provocateurs. A fatherless child was born with an AK-47 in hand. A hand-grenade grew on a pomegranate tree. In two years it was going to burn the roots of a barren Chinar. The sweet water of Chamashahi garden, it was said had turned sour, someone it was claimed had added a certain poison that dried your nutsacks. The clown king was seen driving a scooter with an Indian actress. Gull’e Raid’e, the new king held onto his brief reign using curfews and tear gas. Dancers were ashamed to dance and sing. Even old women now were often seen in black burqas. Old men claimed they were all headed for heaven. Hearts of generational neighbours were turning stiff.

A Muslim woman in India asked for divorce rights and was denied by the highest court of the land. Hindus in India planned to demolish the Babri Mosque of Mughals and plant a grand temple of Rama. The temple was opened by the son of a Bhatta. A cow’s head was found inside a temple in South-Kashmir. There were riots for days. Their properties burned for days. The Brahmans of Kashmir discovered their ancient threads and exclaimed, “I am a Bhatta? I am an Indian? I am a Bhatta! I am an Indian! I am a Bhatta. I am an Indian.”

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Kyahrov



The bed is too big.
Sleeping in separate corners,
between us, 
we can carve entire nations square.
An urge to paint Kashmir, puts me to sleep.
I keep running out of colors.
In the end, I draw from memories.
Even that, I can’t anymore.
Receipt of inheritance is lost.
I have lost count of the windows the house had.
They won’t let me cross.
This river of history has washed away another
corner of my story.
Wet eyed, I remember no more:
Horseshoe of luck is missing at the front.
Black horses break down the door.
Neighing, I hear, their breath on my back, I can feel.
Movement of Knight is unfair.
Rook is half there, eyeing the Queen.
King is ready to pack his bags.
Summer moles dug out and shot.
Winter Pawns sent off to little boxes.
Bishops on the minarets,
cutting straight lines, singing a strange song.
Castle is buried under grey dust.
In the end,
Kings, Queens, Bishops and Knights
dine together at an uncheckered table.
Tomorrow’s headlines,
“A match well fought! A nail biting ending!
Tables ablaze!”
All fair.
Kyahrov, be declared the finest player.
Before I go to sleep, let me say this:
Ramzaan, your pockmarked face,
I remember.
It is true.
In the end, our Kashmir,
like a simple game of chess,
can be drawn in
black and white.
Would you care for another round of the game?
This time let me bring my bag of horseshoes.
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Superman complex

Doctor, what do you call this condition…this particular complex displayed by the Kashmiri Pandits?
I call this ‘Superman’ complex. An average Kashmiri Pandit walks this earth like the man of steel from Krypton. The explanation is simple. Since 1990, they think they are Supermen. Think about it. A planet gets destroyed, someone from it survives and finds shelter on a new planet where he can’t truly be himself even if the new planet has made him more powerful. He has taken upon himself to fix and protect his adopted planet, lest it ends up like his home planet. And he does it more zealously than the actual inhabitants. He is often misunderstood, almost despised and certainly envied. He gets weak in the knees anytime he comes close to a lost fragment from his old planet, his Kryptonite, the other ‘K’s. Often his villains are from his old planet while allies are from the adopted planet. His powers increase as he gets closer to Delhi, Delhi being the proverbial sun. And goes for meditation to Jammu, his Fortress of Solitude, to talk to dead ancestors. So you see, Pandits are essentially living out the Superman fantasy.
Thank you Doctor Saheb for the gyaan. Tohi chev mahaan. Namaskaar.
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Untitled Post

“It is here today that a struggle is being fought,
not in the battlefield but in the minds.”
~ Nehru
That winter, out of mind,
two parts of his brain declared war on each other.
Third one sat unperturbed in a corner thinking,
‘Let it all be over. I shall wait. Imagine, I am not even here.’
City was hit by palsy.
Shivers, they say, lasted two decades.
A decade later, many empty skulls with broken windows
were sold cheap in flea markets of his brain.
Many a birds made nest in them even as
many a birds had flown away to foreign lands. Or, to paradise.
Two decades later, they asked him,
‘Son, what do you see in your sleep?’
In delirium, he replied,
‘I see the demon of civilisation dance.
I see two elephants,
each with memories running back hundred years,
lock their tusks in violent embrace.
I see Mihirakula laugh.
I hear the elephants shriek as they fall off the tea table.
I see many a skulls trample under their feet.
I see they all are now prints on your kaleen.
And I see a third elephant too in the room,
in a corner silently knitting yarn
to keep war war-m for a winter lasting
another hundred year.’
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