Ink became my tongue

By Irfan Tramboo
I tried a lot not to bring outside pain into my writings. Every time I write, I write about what lies within: the darkness. I wrote about my inner darkness, rather than the darkness outside. I wrote about my inner pain, rather than the pain outside.
Today, my city wore a gloomy look. The streets were deserted. But, I saw huge processions of death. I saw droplets of pain raining everywhere. I saw sombre faces everywhere. I saw birds with a complaint in their eyes. I saw flowers with distress. I saw leaves falling down with a sigh. Today, I saw death dancing on the streets. I saw mothers wailing for their loved ones. I saw people choking mourning voices. I saw people caging injured birds. I saw people crying out loud.
These people have seen enough blood. Isn’t this bloodshed a normal affair for them now? Are they tired of wailing? Are they tired of mourning? I don’t know, but today, I saw people: frightened, in shock and mourning something.
The streets wore a gloomy look.
The wind carried that anguish.
The sky was showering pain.
Mothers wailing.
I saw everything: flowers, birds and people.
I couldn’t utter a word.
I cried.  I wrote.
This ink became my tongue
And this paper, my voice
—The author is a student of journalism at Kashmir University. Feedback: 

 

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