Haziq Qayoom Lone
Have you ever found yourself arguing and bickering with your own friends over the thought of freedom our ‘Country Without Post Office’ has been protesting for? I have.
Have you ever caught yourself wondering why you have to argue when everything, every single thing is understood, when everything is foreshadowing? I have.
In my eyesight the one who can perceive the pain of his nation is most wise. If one carries the pain in heart for their nation, they truly care for it. Heretofore, there are discussion and debates and dichotomy in the thoughts around, when all of us are carrying the same pain, why? I wait like a lost puppy who keeps constant vigil over the dark night if its mother is returning for anybody to answer.
If I truly mean to seek a brother’s face in every Kashmiri man, and a sister’s in Kashmiri women then I have lost innumerable of them and, my pain should be infinite. And I should be protesting for that with my pen and with my wisdom. I should be irresistible in my heart; and if we have given away so many friends already I should have faith in freedom. I should not be here, arguing over the hens that never hatch me an egg.
If our people have voted in the past for the government formation, and that, makes you see the glass is half empty even when it is half full, then I am reminded of Karl Marx’s saying, “The oppressed are allowed once every few years to decide which particular representatives of the oppressing class are to represent and repress them.”
“The inhabitants of this land can be conquered only by spiritual force and never by the brute force of arms, hence they have the fear of the other world only,” Wrote Kalhana. The freedom is not to be found outside, it lies within. One has to emancipate from ‘mental slavery’ first. And no one but ‘ourselves’ can do that.
The birds who are born in the cage too have the ability to fly high in the sky, but they grow lousy never hoping to take a flight like the other birds. Nonetheless, they too have wings, they too have the ability, but their souls are lifeless. They don’t fight for their rights.
The other day I questioned my friend who lost his brother during the 2010 agitations, “Do you miss your brother?”
“Painfully,” He answered.
“Does it still hurt?” I quizzed.
“Right here,” He babbled, pointing his index towards his heart.
I pulled him and gave him a tight hug and I could feel him panting in tears. I could feel his wounds that were fresh. I could feel the helpless living hell burning inside him. I could sense the coldness of his tears when they fell on my shoulders. I could sense the cool of his sweaty face when my skin pressed against his. I pulled him a little more closely, and in his ear, I whispered, “Everything is going to be alright.”
“When?” He quizzed.
I opened my mouth to respond, said nothing, and closed it back again.
I couldn’t answer and that is because I did not know any.
But I managed to soothe his heart and ran over the rooftop of our hostel. I lit a cigarette and laid myself down. I saw the moon shining and the tree leaves shimmering. I could feel getting relieved in my heart, but my eyes were still brimming with tears. I wanted to ask those questions to the moon, and to the light. But before anything, I saw my friend’s brother smiling at me in the moon. And I could see he wasn’t dead, and was alive, waiting for the same questions that I have gotten. I knew this was a dream, a lucid dream.
I rose to my knees, hoping he can answer, and I gasped, “When?”
I saw the moon was the balloon of light again.
I fell fast asleep and woke up to the chirping birds and to the hopeful shining sun in the next morning.