Of Lost Home and Acceptance: Jammu and Kashmir

Of Lost Home and Acceptance: Jammu and Kashmir

 

Kashmiri Life is a platform where we look forward to the experiences, memories and wonders of Kashmiri people while living in Jammu and Kashmir. We look on the bright sides of the valley, the emotions attached to its divine beauty and day to day life.

 

But yesterday, we received a tale/poem about belonging for one’s home. The writer was anonymous but quickly perceived as a displaced Kashmiri residing somewhere around the globe. The poem appears to talk about the beginning of dispute in our valley. It talks about the past- its warmth and glory, then the dispute and finally the present residential situation of the writer. And, the acceptance that comes after a long period of 30 years. It carriers the narrative through the medium of a cup, which she/he probably used for having kahwah as a 20 year old. The interpretation is open to all, we perceive what we feel.

 

We preferred to share it for the emotion that it carries, it’s vital to all of us, a unanimous feeling of belongingness to home. Please let us know if you too connect with it.

 

Of Lost Home and Acceptance: Jammu and Kashmir

 

Of Lost Home and Acceptance

Some warm water, a pinch of tea leaves

I sit in her verandah, drenched in serenity.

 

Golden glow, she says, kahwah you are my dame,

Smiles and giggles, takes a sip from my vain.

 

She plucked a flower, put it in her hair.

Picked me up warm, leaned in her chair:

 

Maa had told her about the clashes today,

Deep thoughts, crescent forehead and shivery mane.

 

Papa, in evening had a helpless face,

He wrapped a hand around me, smile efface.

 

Next, I was packed into a wildered sack,

With others, the kettle and tea leaf bag.

 

When I saw light, the world was no more green.

Black and white, no coos and soft breeze.

 

She picked me up, cold. Put me in a drawer,

I sit here now, terrified in horror.

 

She has grown old now, it’s her 50 some birthday,

I got to see the light again, today.

 

A 20 year old, she runs in my memories,

Her 50 some face, blurs the imagery.

 

She let a tear out, picks me- her elf.

Now I sit & glare at blues, from her new shelf.

– Anonymous