Recently I slipped out of my owners pocket (pocket near the heart). I slipped unnoticed.
He didn’t know I had jumped out of my cage only to peep what is going on? A lot of noise of carpet beatings in the air, silence in violence, fading voices, pellets slammed into pulpy eyes like machine gun fire, bullets sometimes pass through me like breeze; stirring the leaves of my heart beats, and jackboots sometimes trample the chest I live in all with immunity and impunity.
Sometimes I manage to peep at people hugging their living dead ones living a free life in bloating graves. Sometimes I see the unseeable.
Sometimes I look at the sky where drifting fluffy copper red clouds weep, the silent, cold red moon staring at warm puddles of blood on street.
And sometimes I fly with green, multicoloured silent coffins on the fragile young and old shoulders. And sometimes I get drowned in a sea of slogans for freedom.
All this disconcerted me. I thought of going back to my place from open air cage and I started looking for my owner. As soon as I caught sight of him, coming from a distance; slowly, silently, fear hung on the doors of his eyes whispering death. I retreated. He whispered to himself like a mad man; laughing, crying, crying laughing, holding his ribs; unfolding his laugh, wrapping his sobs, to tapping his Name, Nathttp://withkashmir.org/wp-admin/edit.php?post_type=pageionality and all the things that decided him in this HIGHEST MILITARIZED ZONE OF THE WORLD. He had a barbed wire on his head; shining likes a crown, bleeding his thoughts.
The blood from thoughts dripped onto the roof of my house and then he knocked the door, rattled windows but his fast heart beats said, “YOUR IDENTITY (identity card) is not here. After living 24 years near the borders of his heart, the first time he was looking for me, in desperation as if his life depended on me.
But soon I noticed another voice, commanding to have a look at me. I didn’t know who that person was. Why was the person so interested in me? And that too only when I was not at my house?
Unlike me, he didn’t look like my owner, nor was he from the place we were born at.
He was looking for me in my own house, suspecting of me in me.
But then he seemed in hurry, shuffled in with jackboots looked around and shuffled out.
The roof over my house has been blown off. The perilous wind picking is up speed and I soon appeared in front of my owner. He hugged, cried, hugged and said, “What do Indian forces do to a person who is stopped at a checkpoint, frisked and asked for you and you are not there?”
He kissed me and dropped me at my house. Many times a day often when he travels Kashmir he drops in at my house, knocks my doors only to see if his IDENTITY is there. Only to see if he is in HIMSELF, only to know he exists, only to bargain life from death.
(He had picked up a stone not to stone anyone, but to play ducks and drakes. He no more plays with stones. In any way he is not HE so he now keeps stones in his pocket, smiling at every check post with his newly installed shining barbed wire teeth.)
The identity card slipped out again! The identity card couldn’t live with given identity.
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