Between the Pir Panjal and Himalayas with the Jhelum flowing through, the surrounding makes for a view. But what about the tears on our faces? It must be dew.
Apples and oranges it seems, our peace compared to the green. The number of tourists now deem, what we really need.
Film sets are returning they say; that’s what they indicate the feels by. The tri-colour flying sky-high, it was high time.
Taking pictures of our lush green, #HeavenOnEarth. But hush, don’t talk about Kashmir, #DoodhMangogeKheer, the analogy always works.
With the lush green valley suppressed, the country still remains impressed.
Our green overshadows the dread.
Between me and the neighbour’s house, as a gunfight rages, the fear of abandonment creeps up in stages. They barge in and escort us out. Is it for our own safety? We wonder how.
The wind whistles through the trees and the bullets pierce the air. The sound of our house crumble is all I see and hear.
All through the night, with the anxious wait and the fight or flight, my family under a tree, waiting for an end to the sight.
The night ends and so does the cordon; we enter our house and cry from the burden. Gaslit, I’ve been told this is necessary. I blame my people for the destruction instead of those that see us as adversaries.
The pillars of our house can’t seem to hold on any longer. And through the shattered windows, I see the jeeps leave as their flags blow even stronger.
As I search through my room, the book on India’s independence has a hole through. It mirrors the hollowed democracy, an image that obscures our view.
And over my lawn, it’s the trees that shade the dead; chinar leaves hide the shade of red.
Our green overshadows the dread.