Kashmir, is a state in India. A country which is secular. From a very long time since 90’s India has been not treating Kashmir as its integral part. It is depriving the state of food , work. It has been more then 70 days of no work. This is horrendous. Need your support , for we are already dead.

The following post is in German so that the news of my homeland reaches even more far.
Ich  bin learen lieben. Ich bin learen Schreiber . Ich bin  learen to spielen. Ich bringen brot .Ich bin ein Mann. Ich bin eine Frau. Ich bin ein kind. Ich bin heft. Ich Schreiber Hängen. Ich bin buch. Du learen arbeiten ich learen besuchen God. Ich learen gehen singen , Hören , fragen du.


Literature classes have always  been fun. They are completely different when you consider it your profession. First step to read the book, analyse and critical analyse. Isint life too? As I mentioned in my first story, I was in depression. I had lost everything. I was free, the kind of free I never wanted. That was my story a month ago. Now when I analyse it , it was depressing, troublesome, still and unconscious of the future. Critically it the end of my flight. It was barren, savage. I was heathen in my own house. I think that is the only problem of humans. Humans tend to jump on conclusion so very fast. If you fail in one, then there is no way out. Shoot. Stop. Analyse the larger picture, don’t stop at the basics. People are anyway going to judge you.  A month later I am in a different city. Different people, a different me. Everything has changed, but for what? Encouragement, shelter, experience. This is life, a critical analyses of your own soul and experiences. This is life, a beautiful present to be opened at the perfect time. 

I called my mother , she jostled around the words. Calling out her condition I asked how is there? One word Stuck. 70th day of no work , that was what people tagged the paradise on Earth. Kashmir. 

Unfortunately it was bullets who ruled and people were laid. 


Beautiful valley shrouded today. Mountains layered with blood. Grenades be the fruits and pellets be the sugar Candy’s. A closer picture , more dreadful. Streets ablazing venom , lights pondering on darkness , festivals turned to mournings. Dead. Savage. Depressed. Alliteration, yes. A unique kind of alliteration. A scary one. 


Cricket’s making their usual sounds, squirrels finding ways to escape , sun below the line of shining. It is again so beautiful to remind humans that they are the blessed one. Super mans , as everybody stares at the hole without blinking. The six gaps from an archaic kind of window made Fatima remember her house made of mud. She would have never imagined that she would come across such an experience of draconian law that could deceit her future forever. She watches through the gaps enters her room and finally decides to write. So she writes on a rusted colour page a tale which remained untouched for many and those who were touched remained silent. 
Dear diary,

I wonder how many stars are in the sky. I know the number is infinite and countless , but is it that which the humans can’t reach. I am writing to you for the last time because my sight is going for a rest. It is going to open when I see death. I am Fatima. I am a girl. I saw many dreams last night , but in the morning I found myself in a very disturbing kind of environment. I see blurred images of many like me. My head will blast. I asked my mother to bring you to me. She did. Aren’t Mothers angels? I am not liking this much. I see a vision of my mother , tears falling. Big big , transparent ones. I can’t understand what’s going. Everything is swirling. On the right side of my bed , I don’t know what lies. I can’t move because I am so sick of moving. I have had my share now I lay to sleep. I wonder are all the kids in my locality seeing like me? Or am I the fortunate one. Whatever it is. This shall pass too. I call to my mother , ask her what is it tomorrow. As I feel something inside me. She said it is Eid my love. The pious festival . I giggle inside, I want to ask my mother if it was that pious why would God lead me through blind ness? I don’t blame God, I blame my existence. But I dare not ask. I remember because my mind is alright, it was one month ago I was celebrating Eid ul fitr. I was all dressed up. Oh , how I loved that pink dress. I would wear it for lifetime now. But wait, what is it like to wear pink? I have forgotten my shade. Oh , tomorrow its Eid. I don’t mind lying around but what about my family. Will they not cook mutton reciepies and chicken? I guess not because my mothers hand are shivering. I don’t know why. I am at my best. I want to tell my mother atleast they had not killed me. At least I was alive. I wonder how many stars are up their in the sky.

Your’s blinded


Daughter of Kashmir.


Faltless , forecast has been made. Radio kept making that annoying noise as I started fixing the station. Ugly , it looked from the outside. Tattered radio cloth was kept in a very clean way. As if new. It was of 90’s. Annoying was the sound , the scratching sounds coming from it. It was suffering , nothing new. It was inactive , but nothing was active so it was active. It pulsated as I prespired. It was hot outside. And the radio wasn’t working normally. It was plain. Finally, after I convinced myself that it isint going to work it started. A Godly voice came taking oath of amity. It was probably the convincing calendar of  depricatation. Funny how things keep repeating, not anymore. It was 69th consecutive day of no proceedings. It was a platter without food. It was poison which was taken from the people. It was all prohibited. To make our lives easy , to facilitate us government had opened lines for Bsnl. We are so fortunate, as my youngest brother said. I said , gesticulating my anger adulttating the situation 

“Thoke yemin”

“Spit on them”.

It was scintillating outside , as sun shone brightly. We played hide and seek for a moment. But that moment I suppose lasted a little longer. It was patriotic to be inside the doors but my brother porch the idea of unpatriotic and went out of gate to hide. I kept him searching while I was blindfolded. I kept asking for him but nonanswer. I emulated his idea of stealing I got rid of the dark black cloth off from my face, danger lied ahead as he was not to be found. I felicitated him with bribes of chocolates , juices but couldn’t here anything. I was excavating from the point I had left him but found no traces. 

I am fragile so I forgot about him. I forgot that I had a brother. I weaved for him a white sweater. He would look a snow man in it. I said. It was the apex of my  ignorance I found his grave in my dream. I stood up , procrastinating for weeks. He was dead by the condition, situation, fate, or panicked. I was his parasol , I had failed. I had prohibited him though to go out, but kids never listen. The hide and seek remained just hide in his case, for I never could sought him again.


Mauji( mother)

Ye kar gachi khatam? ( When will it end)

Jaana, be mangaye khudayas( My beloved son, I’ll ask God for it)

*Both sing*

Ya khudaya, ya khudaya

Oh God , oh God

Tala Boaz soen

Please listen to us 

Wen goav yuta kaal

It has been long now

Me ha chu basaan be maria

I think I am going to die now

*both sobbing*

Karsa wen sahal, boach ha leg

Please solve it , as we are hungry

Ya khudaya ya khudaya

Oh God , oh God

Be karia sajde

I’ll bow in front of you.
They sat together , cuddling when they had finished singing. It was another random family . The boy for who the mother tried to sing was seven years old. Knaive, unknown-known and happy. He had everything. What does a child want? Few pages of a used copy to play with paper boats , his father , mother and few kinds ( German) to physical play with. Omair , had wanted the same. I knew him because he was my neighbour. He was a little brother to me. Last night he was wearing his Ben ten watch , gifted to him by a shopkeeper  . He was so glee . He came in and greeted,

*Asalam allaikum didi*

I said *Wailaikum salam Omair, kaisa hai*?

He said *me theek , Dekho meri nayi gadhi. Ben Ten hai*

I said “awww” and he left for his own imaginations and plight.

We waved them good bye at ten in the night , he was already half asleep or was dramatizing his super works as Ben Ten . Something happened. Terrible. I shouted. Hit against my wall. I cried raised my hands to Upar wallah. What had my ears sccunbed to? What did I just got to know. Omair shot? What. Where how? With what? I was in illusion. 

I called them . His family. Phone rang. None answered. I grew anxious. What might have happened to them? Wasn’t omair showing me his new watch? I cried so much. It was at noon when the phone rained. I said 


The voice :- Omair , is no more.  He died. 

Telephone kept saying something, till my mother put it back in the same order. Shook me to see was I at least alive? I said How?

She refused to answer. I shouted ,said how? She said, they had gone to market in the morning , somebody shot pellets into him.

I was Adam and eve from Paradise lost book 9. Fallen, disgraced, ashamed. My brother was killed. He was laid to death. My heart raged against myself. I felt so unhygienic of myself. I hated Ben ten from then.
Light came again, times flied. I am in my Master’s class finding ways to the corridors. People over here are so happy so smiling. They ask me what’s your story? I reply , Millions and trillions of Omairs. Can you find me an end?


Char chinar was sparkling , it was sparkling white. My eyes closed as they couldn’t bear the noor. But what is noor , and how can one see it? I went further and further , Char Chinar was still sparkling. I saw a divine which was not normal. I had turned my head to the left side , positioning myself straight to this noor, as I came near to it the more it went away. I was stopped by the shikara wallah exactly opposite to Char Chinar, magnificent Oh God. Light was getting dimmer and it was at this time I woke up in my closet. Char chinar had been the most remarked dream in my life. I was at that point when I knew nothing. I was held by my fears , dreams and loss of everything. I was falling from prestige to a pit. It was sunshine , when my father and I stepped in the campus. Students all over the world came and started preparing for interview. Honestly , I didn’t.  The noor , would save me I whispered down in my heart. I was called and I was questioned , answered. I was happy , joyous. I came back and saw my father whose face had gone tired from waiting. I had never asked God for this, I had worked hard. ..

The noor vanished and I was alarmed fobreakfast. I saw light everywhere. I was distinguishing everything , light darkness. It was a hole inside my heart. Coinciding with Kashmir. Kashmir had lost it’s fame. It was close. Chambers had been put down. It was in shackles. Far from the city , women cried . Fathers crowded around. It was the mourning. Snow flakes were suddenly red and white was the blood. I was somewhere in the middle of the noor , trying my angels around. I was lost in the chasm and everybody had lost me. I was changed , submitting myself to knowledge. I was parting myself from emotions that drove me to madness. I had left out the fun, glamour , and lies. I was in noor , I was under the light. 


Rough, savage , bland, life was all these words in a line. Two months back , I cried almost every hour of the day. Simple , wasn’t any solution they had say , but as the waves passed we climbed stairs again. Failure , rejection , drunk , dope , sudden , disappoint. As hours passed by my dog eared novels kept at the shelf were back in my hands. I was reading again. Though felt like a fish out of water but I was there smiling at my professor when he talked about the gender inequality in the garden of Eden. I had succeeded in a new chapter. I was a Victor again, because not all were selected but almost all were rejected. It was the summer of 2016, heights of trust , broken to prices none would have even thought. Criticism all over , why opt for something which is dark? I wasn’t a fool for I knew English was my only strength , or else I was obsessed with the only thought of it. I had come back home for vacations , happy , joyous. As birds flied I walked aimlessly. Hope , kills. I was lost in the colours of the mystical world. I wasn’t safe but who knew the future? From the airport we crossed the bridge and rode to the house. A mustard coloured house of fourteen rooms. When I look back I  smile at my missed mis -opportunities. Life is full of them. As civilised as  I am , I captivated everybody with warm wishes and blessings. Everyone was moving. It was a drunk state of two lovers unaware of darkness  ahead. The objective of this journey was abeginning to a fresh start. I had graduated , we were celebrating. I was generous , trusting the rays of sun which penetrated through the lens of my window. Not a photographer by any chance , pastime writer as you go along my bio. Life was a monopoly either I had won either lose everything. Days passed as summers went blazing Sunshine’s. It was approximately after two days of mystay in Kashmir , my hometown when something sudden happened. I am here in my classroom thinking of what would have happened if I would have stayed. Misery comes straight to myintellect. Approximately , two days were gone. It was a celebrating festival of Eid. My family was all dressed up in white and everybody was glee . It was on one of the nights , televeison sets sparked and left noise. Radio’s mimicked politicians in avery abnormal  way. It was a chaotic situation , it was mayonnaise spread randomly on sweet rashogulla. How would ittaste? Journalists all over carefully chose words as they sat on their daily chair of information. It was south Kashmir which was in trouble , wait it was Kashmir which was in trouble , wait stop . It was the people who were saddened again. It was Hamlet being produced , reproduced , and acted again. It was shining in the name of blood on the streets. It was straight  a story of a pellet from the vehicle of misfortunes. It was the story of a rebel guided to the path of death ,moreover a start of rebellion called Kashmir.  It was sudden like a meaningless essay on the question paper. What will a child do ? Someone was murdered again, killed , brutally mishandled. I remember being in a hall pacing through the lines of divided floors when I heard “first” firing alarm , second , third , fourth , fifth , second. The alarms were coinciding with the voice of the mauzin from the mosques as it was the time of a fourth muslim prayer , Esha. My heart pounded between the sounds. Should I concentrate on the alarm sounds or the religious . It  rushed through million thoughts when I saw people in large groups marching down the streets. I felt the ground shaking. You know , I am 21 years old , a person dreaming of writing about her place. But what would I write? Blood sheds, and protests? I am now 22 years wanting to write about it , telling the  world about the elegies of my homeland. Telling people about the sad songs we have ranted about. My results were out , I was in utterdespair.  What had gone wrong? I asked myself every night. Everyone was displeasing to me. Everyone was dying. I was suffering too. It was the ninth consecutive day. 12 people had losttheir lives , and I was sulking at my academic failure which was regained when I unlearnt everything. 

…. ..

Wings flattering to get the affection of flight , mountains aspiring to heights , children’s ceasing to dance , light overpowering dark . Where has it come , A halo so shallow. Life is mauled and I lay deep thinking at the stars. Not the poet , nor a theatre person I am a man of bullets and reason.

A week before , I was discussing a birthday surprise for my favourite sister in the family.  And to this we never had a chance to eat the bite of the ordered , unreached cake.  My father asked me is the internet working? And I said no , but i had wanted it so bad. Internet which is making every step to join humanity was banned. It was stopped by ( I-Dont – know – what – to – call – them ) …. I was called downstairs for tea and while I was waiting for my father at dastar Khan ,  news flash and thirty dead. This is zulum(Atrocities) , my father whispered and sipped a hot namkeen chai, famous all over Kashmir.  It is strange to see the earning hand of your family sitting idle in house doing nothing .  Some may call it a family time but I call it a Hostage life.  Devoid of everything. Devoid of food ,  medicines and freedom to travel. The architecture of Kashmir houses is such that we have a house that we can tour. Thank God for that. But many people still don’t have that and live in a one storyed house. But luckily , I have been lucky enough to get  a house of three storey where in the life of Hostage I can at least roam.  From one room to another , Kitchen to Hall , Hall to dinning and then sleep. Like you are already dead the other morning.  Days passed and I saw my father along my side every day and every night . Well for my mother it was a summer vacation turned into a threat as she is a teacher in a local government school.  We watched news every day and followed their instruction. ” Tomorrow is curfew”


“Kashmir bandh “. The best part about this  is , the announcement of mornings through chirping birds because its so silent out there that even an ant can’t escape your instinct.  Thirty plus dead as a news channel shouted. “Shivers and misery across the valley.”

“Beautiful valley succumbed”. As these headlines captured every eye of us , the freedom seekers lost theirs. Bullets, bomb shells and what not. Life is miserable. And nicely elaborated by the army men. Men in the uniforms , like naked bullets.

A woman aged sixty , when asked about her heath condition said :-

” I was sitting in my home. They ( army men) came and dragged us from our rooms. It was me and my son who was beaten and whose voices remain choked. Where to go , where to check in. This is happening since 90’s , is it ever going to end”.

Its the seventh day of full complete shutdown in Kashmir valley. I ask a question do you sometimes feel a threat inside your own house? Threat of being dragged to the dirtiest hole on earth.  Nothing stops and nothing starts. Its always in the middle and edge. It is always about the valley on edge. It is always about the blood. Its always about the freedom. A seven letter word , a seven day of restrictions a resurrection is all we need a resurrection.