Fida Hussain Sodagar
Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns.” (George Eliot)
The summer is dead. Paradise is engulfed by autumn which is mostly referred to as the season of death. But, in the Paradise Kashmir, autumn is a season of colors and mesmerizing beauty. The golden and yellow scenes dominate the eco system. The crispy Chinar leaves renovate into a golden carpet creating lyrics of eternity. The morning breeze loaded with a novelty invigorate the soul and the drops of morning dew shining like pearls are kissed by the gentle rays of sun. The golden paradise indeed is a name suited to the valley of Kashmir. The onset of autumn creates a beauty in gold and yellow. All around looks a blissful fantasy with a castle on the sky guarding the Golden treasure of nature.
Put a Pause on the beautiful and golden side of the paradise. There is a vicious paradigm shift from the beauty to death and destruction. The autumn has been recreated as a metaphor of pain and bereavement. A new color has encrypted in the autumn of paradise, the color of red. The golden bliss has been blown up and dominated by the redness of bloodshed. The onset of autumn communicated the breeze filled the smell of blood. The magic of golden autumn fades away in a blink of the eye. The golden Chinar leaves get distorted into the red carpet with blood oozing from every leaf. The drops of dew have been replaced by the tear drops of the conflict torn souls. The mighty Chinars were rendered as shade providers to the dead and shattered bodies. The predators of peace devastated the fairy scenes of the golden autumn. The brutal politics blossomed facilitated by the bloodshed. The pellets crushed the dreams of flowers that were prepared to bloom and flourish and pierced the soul of paradise plunging it in a wave of mourning and tearful eruptions. The singing of the birds to welcome the autumn became the symbol of melancholy. The magical rivers reconstructed into the flowing graveyards. Solace turned into vexation and the happiness into agony. The golden autumn has manipulated in the red autumn in the paradise.
Oh my paradise of pain when will be the autumn of gold renovated to unleash its magic? All the conflict torn souls are waiting for a peaceful autumn. The autumn will die too, the winter will be alive, white or red remains to be seen. Let’s hope for the autumn when sun will again smile on the golden nature to set free a wield of solace and blissful breeze.
The author holds a P.G in Mass Communication and Journalism and writes on various issues. He can be reached at: firstname.lastname@example.org.