A Letter to the Departed Love

Dear Love,

I am writing this to you from the slant of the desolated Jhelum shipping the restless water. Beneath the infinite sky of motionless clouds. Where our trysts had flourished into daisies. Where our kisses would vaporize and return back to us through rain. I know not the scene you are watching but here it is same as it was on our last meeting. Yes it is same like – these golden rays dancing on the maple leaves, these clouds floating across the firmament, this passing breeze departs its chilliness on my face, these birds singing chorus of love and lullabies to their offspring’s – and the only strange thing is your absence whispering around.

I am ill at easy at heart my life is all dark and lonesome. I know not whether I should write this to you and send you the poignant prayers and make you cry or should I else seek the hidden treasure in the memories you left enfolded inside me and perish myself into oblivion. Then there is a happy fisherman sailing his boat and singing in ecstasy – should I lend some euphoria from him and leave him displeased? Then there comes a silent dusk when moon come into sight to shine upon the earth – should I lend some light from the moon and make her glum?

The world is knitting the poetry of love and your nonappearance is adding plaintive notes of music to my life – when it took the pleasure of morning away and brought the fractured sleep into the twilight of my eyes. You gave yourself to me in love and after the process of half decade the ugly death became the error. Now every sunrise when I look upon the world I felt myself a stranger with no name and no family – thrown to the odd waves and to repulsive fate. I know neither the beauty of nature nor of life. Only the songs you sang to me took up the tunes and make my heart to dance, my eyes to shine and deck my face with smiles.

My dearest love, I miss you my darling, as I always do, but today I visited your favorite place and the waves of Jhelum sang the beautiful song to me and the song is that of you and me together. Here everything around me is making me miss you. Dear Love I am lost without you, I am soulless framework of bones, a vagrant without a home. I have all the things and I have nothing at all. This, my darling, is my life without you. I know not when death that departed us will blend us anew. And I know like I loved you I shall death as well.

You’re Love.

Kashmir: An Abode Of Grief

To describe our grief words are not simply enough. To be born there one must be all set to receive the call of death. To be its Mother she must not overlook to knit the long list of dreams for her already deceased son. To be its wife she should not look forward to a good omen for her husband. Yes! I am talking about KASHMIR my home! My grave! My once limelight Paradise!

Being generous enough to my outrage, the queries have achieved the surface as they ask me, where is democratic India and where does its decent democracy prevail? Where are Modi and Mufti? Where are the heedless leaders of this glum nation? Did they hear that we lost a pair of another youth in a week – Khalid & Suhail? A few are on the verge of death and the rest is imminent to die. Did they hear that the hope of another mother has got brutally taken away by their tyrannical forces? Did they hear that chorus she sang on her lakht e jigar’s ceremony and our slogans of AAZADI? I wish they could have!

Confining the nation within the fences of extreme hatred and aid it by duly juvenile behavior is totally unpardonable. The strength and accountability of India lies in its secular and democratic set up, judiciary must ponder hard before serving Kashmir its dictatorial tenets of law. Especially our Mufti government had been devoted enough to take keen notice as to why the common Kashmir’s are being killed hardheartedly without any cause. And if being plebiscite is being illegitimate then every human being on earth deserve a gunshot on its temple.

Indian security of forces could have educated their rowdy army about their duties, about the undue rewards of power and gun, about the bilateral accord and obligations under UN Security Council adopted resolution 47, Kashmir with the following principles.
(i) That the presence of troops should not afford any intimidation or terrorization to the inhabitants of the state.
(ii) That as small a number as possible should be retained in forward areas.
(iii) That any reserve of troops which may be included in the total strength should be located within their present base area.

The aspiration of Kashmiris should not be termed as ‘Terrorism’ – it is fairly easy to understand that no nation has ever got freedom by convincing its occupier, but by indomitable yen and certainly you can’t take it like terrorism. The killings of adolescents and the mere bread earners of families is unfortunate and outrageous as well. The forces involved in all these killing have failed to track these principles as to disclose their responsibilities. And guilty must be punished.

In parallel, the mainstream political parties and separatists too fall short to mollify and convince the people of Kashmir. Their disunity has spoiled the nation like too many cooks spoil the broth. Their shut down and strike calls in disjointed manner will never accredit in favour of these leaders cum rivals. Kashmiris are modest and humble people and it is more a mockery than an authentic retort to these aggrieved folks. This is not going to pacify the wounds of Kashmiris. The distrust and alienation might become irreparable and may lessen the altitude of determination, and when courage is lost, to whom one should complain to?

Tailpiece: I am Kashmir I was born free; but they caged me. I stand firm and they took it otherwise.


A version of this article was also published in printed edition of Daily Rising Kashmir on 02, May-2015,  http://www.risingkashmir.com/kashmir-an-abode-of-grief/

and also appeared in an online portal Kashmir In Focus on the same date, http://kashmirinfocus.com/2015/05/02/kashmir-an-abode-of-grief/

A Night Of Despair

IT was quarter past twelve. I was reading Orhan Pamuk while taking sips of Lipton tea, when my younger sister entered my room with index finger placed across her lips and her eyes quite wide, as she conversed her silence into words, it took me a jiffy to hear her humming sound; “It is an Army cordon outside; turn the lights off”. Following the instruction, I put my book and half filled goblet of tea on the night stand. We both looked sneakily through the windowpane and the street lights in the dark served us the ring of soldiers patrolling the streets. An uneasy calmness had engulfed the atmosphere with only the soldiers’ murmurs breaking the quiet of the night. I saw some cops were alert while a few of them smoking cigarettes, one on phone call and another resting against the electrical pole. As if they were waiting for someone’s arrival.

None was aware of the reason behind the cordon. My Dad’s cousin had buzzed him revealing the army personnel have barricaded the entire village. Instead of pleasant sleep night brought the ordeal alarm. The tension deprived every eye of the sleep and the horror left folks miserable. Everyone was anxiously waiting for their departure, so that they could sleep in the remaining portion of night. But a big thanks to our street dogs it didn't happen the way people wished.

My grandfather once told me that in the times of my adolescence, they had witnessed such nights frequently. Crackdowns and cordons were a routine be it during the day or night. They never slept during many such nocturnal raids. Someday night would pass atrociously while at times; it would bring a half fractured sleep into one’s eyes. It’s not so nightmarish now to witness cordons or raids as we are used to these experiences. They don’t terrify people to that much extent. In those times they would barge in the houses. They would keep families even the female folks and infants outside in the teeth chattering cold during the night hours; they would even beat people especially the youth without any justification.

From the past tyrannical times, the bone-chilling incident of Kunan-Pushpora is another case in point. Where a night like this one passed and took everything away of people. Where files of justice are still waiting to get unleash. Where every eye is moist, every heart numb, every mind restless. Where people still struggling to let justice prevail. Where the regime has always miserably failed to meet the demands of people; where people are alone left to suffer.

It was quarter to two when the voices abruptly arose outside. We awfully peeped through window glasses. There was an array of soldiers coming down the alley leaving past our house and then neighbors. A spark of relief reigned on our faces. The rest of night passed away with a mixture of feelings – sleep and obsession. Obsession of past despotic nights and the one I witnessed.

Next morning came. The stories about night started surfacing regarding someone’s abduction and much more. On that particular day, while waiting outside the bakers’ shop I happened to listen to a dozen of old men and women talking about the hot topic – “last night’s cordon”. An old wrinkled woman addressing the another person “Mea booz Ramzanun qayoom chuk nemut rattith” while the latter responded in a low voice “ Hatai naai, dapaan hey kem’taan che easmech kastaen mukhbirii karmech”. I took the bread and left.

My valley has been witnessing such horrific nights for decades; when it lost its chastity and glory. When it witnessed bloodshed and wailed. When it suffered and complained. These suffering are so long and pitiless.


A version of this article also appeared in printed edition of daily kashmir reader on 30 April- 2015, http://www.kashmirreader.com/a-night-of-despair/

She Was Always There For Me.

The Noble Quran has illustrated it this way “Every soul shall have a taste of death”

SAIDA: The immortal love of my soul and the ravishing memory of my heart. Whose inestimable attachment, heed and warmth of love came to an end was Almighty’s most beautiful and priceless endowment to me. For I will – Certainly I will always crave [badly] for her companionship and in no doubt will always be deprive of – because I’ll never get my Granny back into my life for I had laid her for rest in the eternal space – GRAVE, and the universe is too weak and worthless to bear such a phenomenal soul anew and I – too dimwit to put her on a lone paper.

By Allah I ain’t in my sanity and I have no guts to express that moment when I was taking her to her last abode on my shoulder, inside a livid coffin, wrapped in a colorless garb and holding bulk of tears back into my eyes was extremely hard job I had done ever in my life. I was merely reminiscing those old-gold & beautiful moments I cherished with her. I was musing and musing over her fathomless and invaluable love and care which shall never rain on me for a second time. And POMPOSH will wither away – how can it flourish when the gardener is lifeless.

With Granny I have had an emotional attachment [that’ll last forever], be it sharing things, my studies, my shopping and other daily stuffs I would never do it without bringing her up to date about what the matter be and of course she would habitually irritate me by examining it more than a scientist would examine his or her creation for last spin. My beloved Granny you were the shining star in my seclude life. Your demise has left a great void in me, in my heart and in my life. It has depopulated my world. Phew! Who will examine those things now? Who will take care of my belongings? Who will irritate, love and nurture me like you did? Who?  – – – – NOBODY! And it hurts like anything when I think about you.

“Waloo haa nigaaro be haawai jigar
Tahas gow mea balaa,
mea maa leg’h khabar”

 I Love You [APPA] my Mother, my undying Love. I Love You so – so much, beyond the limits of infinity. I Love You more than my fractured words can convey. And I swear by Allah that your Son will turn that every dream you knit for me in a reality. May your beautiful soul flourish in heavenly spaces! I will miss you forever.

Cheerless Portrait

(I)

In this winter like spell
a ravine splits the foothills
this rain invites melancholy
to her home
where her babies
crying in starvation.
In search of chow
mother
nomadic – akin
from hill to hill
from bough to bough
in spite of food every time
with bare jaws and beak
holding the false hope
of continued existence.

(II)

The dull sheets of sky
sends the deluge of pitiless drops
lessening on the fresh daisies –
spangled grassy knoll
on the deadly boughs of fallen tree
passing life to its naked roots.
Where this feeble mother
with finite sufferings
rests a jiffy
and croons
to her creator
the refrain of severance
and the searing pain
emerging from her eyes.

(III)

From some corner
she too writes to me
the yarn of downpour
disturbed the fine slant
of her nearby hillock
and the shore of striking creek
running past her home.

She writes to me
with a lump in her throat
drawing her deciphered musings
and fighting back her tears
scrawling on a drenched paper
the brutal tale of deluge.

From the smeared shore of Jhelum
she writes;
the fluctuating
distance of filthy water
and the frozen eyes of fishermen.
She writes;
temple chants the hymn
after the bell’s every boom.

She further writes to me
the yarn of 2nd oppressor.
She writes it never warns
it visits you in the dark
akin to First one
and leaves your corpse
in the lanes of neighbor
it departs you
damped not in blood
but
fairly in ruthless water.

(IV)

To the spring I beseeched
come Oh spring
and convey life to my demised vale.
To its distressed folks
explicate the riddle of ecstasy.

Out of suffering and extreme ruin
come and attire my land
in apparels of arresting beauty.

Come and visit my perished paradise
its glum gardens
and foul brooks.
Come and heal the scene of desolation
Come and cease this growing rift
of man and nature. 

If Ever

If ever you talk to your soul
 It speaks of life and death
 And the tales of severance.
It speaks about you.
The uncanny you carry along.

If ever u get to listen to silence
It sings soothing chorus.
It speaks of the nature.
It speaks so beautifully.

If ever you watch tides
They rise and low
They come and go
How to love, they show.

If ever you listen to night
It whispers through twinkling stars
Through moon it smile on dark.

If ever you smell the breaking dawn
 It smells delicious.
It travels through dark pavements
so to bring the day.
It articulates through light.
Ahead of mountains it leaves the night.

If ever you snoop on a grave
It speaks horror
and the tale of unbridled slumber.
It speaks about the deeds and fallouts
It speaks about ail and aid.

And
If ever you pay attention to my Kashmir.
It'll speak to you through million tears.
Of whispering nights
and curfewed days.
Of her bruised bosom
and crimson lap.
Of her sunken eyes
and beloved people.
It'll sing you her agonizing lullabies,
And elegies for her martyrs.It'll sing you the slogans of FREEDOM.

The Phenomenal Woman

From the moment I have stepped onto the threshold of this dusty planet to gradual maturity, in addition to numerous blessings, God has laid his hands on me with a fringe-benefit in the unique shape of my maternal Granny. To the best of my recollection, I have always found this wrinkled woman with me exactly in the manner we carry breaths inside our bosom; holding me in her luxurious lap, singing lullabies to me in the times of melancholy, washing my soiled stuff, taking care of my belongings and narrating bed-time tales of Shal-kak and Hemaal – something, at least in what I believe, the luckiest grandson on this earth.

The amount of her love I have felt myself engrossed in is simply irreplaceable. She is the treasure in the cradle of life, a kind word uttered to me by deity, a star from the heaven, a droplet to drown my child-like thirst, even as I have grown through many summers now. It feels like God has used her rib to create me like Eve was created from Adam’s rib. It feels like I’m the fruit and she is the forbidden tree and nobody shall detach us.

Not only to me but all around she has remained eternally nice, sympathetic and ready to lend a hand to the deprived folks, to her fellow citizens, to every needy person who comes her way. A very plain, down to earth lady who had no extravagances – only fathomless necessities, I can still reverie in my head that in the catastrophic times how she would conceal her glumness behind the wide smiles.

After every dreadful moment she would assure her family that God will consider her every sacrifice and tear yonder – while rolling her eyes heavenward – he will bless us with fortitude and aid. Being unlettered woman, she would occasionally preach like a thinker, “and whosoever suffers the obstacles while fulfilling the responsibilities handed over by him [God]; whosoever plant tears in his [God’s] way will harvest smiles”.

In her wise counsels, one goes like this “never get afraid if you fall short in one subject it doesn’t mean you failed your life, conquer and triumph over all the hardships of life, they will enrich your strength that will assist you to complete the voyage of life. My prayers are with you my son”.

Besides my mother and the rest of affectionate members, granny has gifted me with a pair of lovely women –maternal aunts; who have had nurtured me like a monarch, who have endured my every bitter nature, who have taught me the world and the life we breathe within its confines. My granny would be the cause behind all my victories – more than for myself, I have always wanted to win for her.

In her mid-sixties now – the once energetic and lively woman, has now been enduring with a brain tumor, the extra mass the family would never have imagined she would need to carry one day. Doctors seem to have given up, medicines go ineffective, and prayers –bunch of which she once showered on everybody – also seem to be going unheard.

This unkind malady is dragging her towards the door of death and I’m standing here unarmed before God’s will. It feels like my world is falling apart gradually and I can do nothing to prevent the arrival of an impending catastrophe.

I have neither any courage nor any strength to give in return something to a woman from whom I have always been receiving, without questions asked, which is why I am penning down this half-penny’s worth write-up, an outburst of intertwined emotions, as a tribute to the only gracious woman who has been in my life. I still have faith in prayers, yours might help. Do please pray for us

A version of this article was also published on the print edition of Greater Kashmir on Friday 13 March 2015, http://www.greaterkashmir.com/news/2015/Mar/13/my-ever-loving-and-caring-granny-15.asp

Nocturnal Melody

The night begets,
the melodious pitter-patter
of rain - a mercy
the bald moon
sent shadows beyond,
the dark mountains and
melancholy to earth;
and disappears
behind the fleet of clouds.



Etching the lines of irk,
on the fine surface
of star-spangled firmament;
resigning to its fate
that couldn't glitter
the braids of night.



Moon laughs at night
and men
in the shattered houses
on the hearthrug,
facing the glum hearth.
And the sheen of,
half burned candle -
dances on their dismayed faces.



Envy of rain
moon;
as droplets raise the Jhelum
night befriends dark
and moon remains alone.

Vulgarity Of Indian Cinema

Being a Kashmiri and member of a self-effacing and religious family, I have always found it ill at ease and uncomfortable to watch movies with elders. Gone are the days when parents had no objection in watching movies with their children just for a change. With the intolerable increase of western exposure in Hindi movies, it has become achingly complex for us to accept anything like these that is served in the name of entertainment.

The depiction of blatant and disgraceful scenes of indecency in Indian movies is highly nerve-racking. Such scenes, whether or not the story demands them, are dovetailed at every peculiar place. Whole crew feels that their film shall thrive only by a liberal inclusion of scanty-clad actresses in all kinds of crude ways. On account of this most of the Indian movies are proliferated with disgustingly lewd scenes and are utterly indecent for mass screening. The behavior of producers and directors in Indian cinema of making money at the cost of our social and cultural ethics is indeed objectionable.

Indian cinema is making bad impression on our society and is a great reason behind the engulfing rise in rape and murder cases by contaminating the sensibility of youngsters. The incessant unravel of decency by Indian cinema has corralled the youngsters in the vibes of negativity. It is rare now to find films based on any cultural and intellectual notion through which one may get to acquire something good from.

The onus is on Indian cinema to encourage and educate the youth about their ethical and cultural beliefs, values of life and the status of woman rather to discourage them by never-ending interpretation of vulgarity every time. It should highlight cultural, religious and moral values and way of life so as to spread positive instead of negative vibes, so that our modern generation can come to know the basic values of being in the human life.

And at last, if we are serious about to give woman respect and to treat her the way she justify to be treated, all an Indian cinema has to do is just to illustrate these immodest scenes and violence in such a manner that it should seem hateful rather than glorious.

A version of this article was also published in the print edition of Daily Kashmir Monitor on Friday, 13 February 2015

This Winter

This Winter I yearn for snow
for disarray snowman
to witness the agony,
for icicles to trickle gently
the heavenly soup
and drown my aged thirst,
for snow coated clothesline
to be the footbridge for birds.

This winter I dream of snow
of opaque white maples
to trade their auburn with alabaster
and to spell the rain of snow crumbs.
Of the bullion sun
to splatter its golden grime
on the snow crowned Mountains and roofs,
of sundown’s
to serve white nights
and the tales of unbridled slumber.

This winter I plead snow
to swathe the scarlet Jhelum
and sponge down its blood smudged shore.
To hide the crimson firmament
in the shroud of clouds,
to conceal the perished graves
to pray for demised ones
and bring soothe to living corpses.

This winter I witness the Jhelum
flowing in the opposite trend
falling and craving for snow to come and raise it.
I witness mountains and maples
shrieking and longing for snow as well
surrendering before sun and the sheen it serves.
I witness birds down in the dumps
moping around,
from tree to tree, from bough to bough.
I witness my heart and eyes from the attic
mourning in a deep grievance,
making yen of watching the world to turn into heaven.
I witness my pen bleeding and urging snow anew
through silent words and emotions
oh! Snow fall and attire,
my valley is naked.

Love, Religion and Family

He threw his marker pen at him which exactly hit at his Adam’s apple when he caught him inattentive and swaying his head from north to south and south to north while facing the east of classroom. Tutor: What are you doing Saif?
Saif: hesitantly, na… nothing sir, when he found that every student even all girls just two rows ahead of him are casting stern backward glances at him, his face turned scarlet in a flash
Tutor: why are you moving your head then?
Saif: Trying to assemble words in his mind. Lost in meditation – Lie needs rehearsal.
And he replied; while passing on the marker pen to his mate sitting ahead of him. – Just to get a clear view of board sir;

Saif [escorted by science stream and dispassionate in Math’s though his focus lies on Literature] was in fact struggling to land his soft gaze at a girl’s left rosy-cheek he had fallen head-over-heels for.

Nowreen, a medium stature, whitish girl with a round winsome face and a heart striking dimpled smile was a Sikh girl before she fell in love with Saif –  in a day five times Nimaz offering boy.
You are affectionate, pious, my would-be better-half and above all you have depicted me a path leading to heaven, this answer she often came up with whenever he had asked her the reason behind such an intense love for him?
Sehar was her new name drawn by her Saif – Because it was his favorite among female names.

Saif who belongs to a middle class family in Baramulla district is confined in the countless parapet of expectations but he was indeed full of spirits and joy since he had done something best in view of his Almighty and his beloved Prophet Mohammad s.a.w – he had turned Sehar’s religious creed and because of the thought in dreams he frequently find himself enjoying the mere company of Sehar [as if he had said Almighty not to send any HOOR for him because he is with his HOOR] resting on the coverlets of snow on the verge of milky creek, drinking beverages, in the once garden of Adam and Eve eating the fruits of forbidden tree. And Sehar instead of living a luxurious life is good-at-heart girl. But she was afraid lest her family snuff her out, particularly by her own grandfather (who loves her most) – a patriarch in nearby Gurduwara, in case they came to know about her embracing the religion Islam. Sehar would lock her room and recite the Quran – she cautiously kept concealed in the inner most packet of her college bag. In every prostration she would plead to Allah to make Saif her other-half. In a state of trepidation she had to frequently visit her neighborhood friend Fatima’s home so she could make a recitation of Quran in front of her and offer ZUHAR and ASAR nimaz right next to Fatima and Fatima would point out her mistakes and encourages her, most significantly she would cuddle her on narrating the whole verse in the appropriate manner.

Saif had taught her Quran narration, ablutions, Nimaz as well as other fundamentals of Islam besides making her memorize all six kalimah plus fifteen surah excluding surah yaseen (heart of Quran) and surah Ar-Rehman. Truly Fatima also did her best in teaching and proper pronunciation of her Quran.

One morning of September, night has surrendered and sun had come out from behind the dark mountains with a bright sheen, and prickly rays that would make an acute angle of reflection when striking any luminous body, birds had left for chow singing love chorus while flying to far-off places and disappeared so as the acoustics of their chorus. Farah – [ Saif’s younger sister stepped onto the threshold of this dusty world right after two years the entry of Saif and a person in family he loves the most and had shared everything with her related to Sehar] came in and took the quilt off his brother without letting him know because it was quarter to nine, so late according to his daily routine, and Saif with agar eyes, stretched his body and telling Farah to let him sleep for a while.
Biaya No, you’ve already waken up so late today. Get up Papa was looking for you Farah replied, while removing the curtains off the window panes and the shower of golden rays landed inside the room.
For what? Saif replied.
You have to come with me;
Er………. With you!
Yes, I have to do some Eid-shopping.
Saif still leaning on bed,
Please Baiya get up now, see your room – error written papers lying allover on the floor, I have to see if Mummy needs any help in the kitchen too.
He didn’t tell her that he was wide awoke writing his story – Love Religion and Family. He didn’t tell her that he also mentioned her in it.
When Saif was on the verge of leaving the room for ablution, his cell-phone on the nightstand played a nice tune.
Your Butterfly is calling you Baiya. Farah spoke along with a mouth-closed smile.
He has named her by a sobriquet “BUTTERFLY” in his phone book.
Saif made a call in which a second-hand of a clock would have hardly strolled a journey of semi-circle. Farah was behaving like a statue of liberty. He dropped his cell on the bed and left for bathroom.
Baiya is everything fine? Why did Sehar DI ping you so early today?
It’s not early this time Farah, it’s too late you just told me. Didn’t you?
By the way; Your Sehar Di and I had decided to keep a rendezvous and now you have come up with your shopping drama.
We can have that tomorrow; you should go and meet your butterfly.
 You brutes, I love you.
I love you too Baiya.

Crispy autumn was serving the breeze with a scent of woods and flowers mingled in it. Nearby waterfall and birds were producing finest tunes in the background and sun was showering its beams of golden dust chains. At the top of a nearby foothill [that in fact separates their villages] they were leaning against the maple tree and Saif was recalling her all the kalimah’s and surah; she had already memorized. On inspecting that Sehar is on the road to recovery, he gave her a slight embrace and shoots a loud kiss on her temple.
Saifu, I am so scared of getting killed by my own family. While hiding her head in his bosom, they aren’t going to accept SEHAR, they only want NOWREEN, and they love Nowreen not Sehar. Isn’t my love enough for you? Saif retorts
Yes of course it is…. You are everything I could ever have. But I want to see a bride of yours in me, I want to spend my life with you, I want to see our children’s growing. I want to see you right next to me in every situation, holding my hand and clasping and kissing my brow in times of melancholy. I don’t want to be with you just for a wee time. I don’t want this meeting to be the last one. I am not afraid of death Saifu, I am afraid of losing you. I am terrified of the word “separation”. Your absence will make me suffer more than the death.
Saif you know what truth means for me? And how I see the lie?
For me the truth is you; your love; your presence and the rest of everything is lie.
Saif cupped his hands around her face and plant a kiss on the tip of her nose. Do you know why I picked a name SEHAR for you?........... It means SUBHA a bright dawn when nobody dares to cease the finite beams of sun to shower upon the world, when stars and moon who invites every dark night disappears and sleeps in the slumber and when birds bring a new song to the world and world comes to life in all its glory. Tell them you aren’t going to change your mind, in fact invite them towards Islam and narrate them its fundamentals I have taught you, if they’ll not accept you and if they’ll kill you, don’t afraid, don’t lose your heart, trust Allah; Allah will reward you a martyrdom. You’ll be named as MARTYR. A beautiful tag every Muslim wants to earn, but only fortunate lot manage to get. Sehar you know tomorrow a martyr will tell Allah to bring him/her back to life, and let him/her die again as a martyr.  And Allah say’s that martyr’s bodies will remain intact because I will feed their souls with the heavenly fruits. So my love, why are afraid about, about our separate? Don’t be; we will meet up there in the heavens. Look at these waterfalls, these birds and these beautiful green pastures and mountains. They are dazzling with perfect splendor. Aren’t they?
Yes they are, because they are free…. Birds free to fly, waters free to fall and mountains free to rise. Saifu, I want to build a fixed abode here for us after our matrimony, see we would be first to meet the gold-silver sun beams and near to stars and moon during hours of darkness. I want these mountains to guard us and these birds I want them to sing for us. They embrace and attired a lip-zipped smile.
Soon after their graduation results were announced, Saif applied for Masters in Literature at JAMIA MILLIA ISLAMIA central university of New Delhi. Sehar hardly wanted now anything for her, all she wanted to get married and learn Islam, but Saif forced her to pursue further studies. While Sehar applied for Master in Physics at Kashmir University. Luckily both made it in their respective subjects.

Saif went to Delhi and Sehar remained here half-hearted, reading Quran slyly and his poetry that he wrote for her – grinning and giggling and reading again, but now she didn’t have to worry about being caught while offering nimaz, as she could offer it comfortably at girls hostel, Fatima was also with her in Physics block. They shared room with another girl Meher – a tall lean girl, with brownish tresses hails from Srinagar.

On some weekend when Sehar at her home, in her brunch drinking coffee from balcony of her room lost in natures eye-catching beauty, thinking about Saif, coiling and uncoiling her scarf at edge, meantime her mother crossed the threshold of her room and unzipped her bag of cloths that had to be unavoidably washed. Lost in obsession, she didn’t sense her mother’s coming and her apparently all off a sudden, as her eardrums felt a harsh yell of her mother, she lost her control and the goblet she was drinking coffee from fell down and shattered in pieces. In an attempt to regain her lost composure she cast a look at her mother only to find the Holy Quran in her left hand.
What is this Nowreen? Her mother in a high-pitched voice!
Her heart made a rush of beats inside her bosom. Her shivering legs started to make a voyage of yards towards her mother. Her lips start to mutter tremblingly.
Mu,,,Mum,,,,Mumma! Please don’t call me Nowreen.
What the hell are you talking? Mother shrieked again,
My name is Sehar and I have changed the story of my palms, I don’t belong to your religion anymore, I am a Muslim Mumma, I am a Muslim!
Without thinking for a moment, her mother slapped her left cheek noisily. Tears began to flow and Sehar finally assembled courage inside and spoke; Mumma, Islam is a perfect and noble religion, there is nobody else but Allah we have to drop our heads in prostration for. We have come in the world to praise him, accept his instructions, to love his last messenger Prophet Mohammad s.a.w and to spread his religion far and wide. Mumma please accept the Islam; tell Papa, Dadu and others to accept it. Instead of letting her speak further her mother started to thrash her ruthlessly with a steel rod her papa had brought for her room to hang curtains between balcony and her room on. Her mother snatched her phone and pushed her on bed and locked the room. Sehar feeling terrified, afraid, broken and helpless wishing her Saif would be here right next to her. After a short while her parents and Grandfather all suddenly entered her room and locked it inside and the door of balcony too.
We can’t let you be a Muslim, you have to return to your religion – Sikhism, we are your family, this is your religion, I love you Nowreen my daughter, did you forget my love and the chocolates and teddies I used to bring for you? Did you forget all those lullabies I used to sing before your going to the bed?  His grandfather said.
I love you too Dadu, i.e. why I am asking you to accept Islam, I want to see you in heaven. And I am not going to change my mind; I am not going to accept any other religion. I am a Muslim, I’ll live as a Muslim, and I’ll die as a Muslim. The unleashing layers of rage started to burnish on his grandfather’s brow. He brought out a cane of kerosene oil that he had concealed behind his back.
So you are not going to accept me.
NO, Sehar replied.
He uncorked the cane and asked again
Sehar a headstrong girl replied with the same answer.
 Going past the bounds of heartlessness he splashed the oil over her, over the base, over her bed and the couch.
Get out of the room he hurled to his son and his daughter-in-law.
They left without uttering any word back. Her mother with teary eyes was eavesdropping at the door, bawling, giving non-stop thumps on the door.
For next ten minutes the sound her parents perceived were her screams only and a Kalimah she mumbles in her last breaths.
Next day her family publicized her death was fortuitous.
At the night of the next day, Saif was trying to ping her but it was on switched off mode.
With the arrival of dawn he again tried but operator came up with the same response.
Fortunately a thought crossed his mind that Sehar once saved the number of Fatima in his cell phone just for safety measures.
He moved the cursor down and down and down in the valley of numbers.
He found it – Fatima –
He dialed…. Ring… Ring… Ring….
Hello, a numb female voice appeared on the other side.
Hello, Fatima there?
Yes; I am Fatima.
I am Saif.
Fatima burst into peals of cry.
Hey what happened? Are you fine?
And where is Sehar? Her phone is off.
She is DEAD Saif – she is DEAD.
 They killed her – they burned her and announced her dead as a case of accident nature.
Saif turned deaf and frozen; he was lying bolt upright on the couch in his room with his chum Huzaif, surge of tears made a rush along his cheeks, his phone fell down and went into divisions from his hand. Saif fell unconscious. Huzaif fell in the state of chaos; he cupped his head in his hands.
Hey Saif, giving slight slaps on his face.
Hey! What happened… tell me.
Saif! Saif!
Huzaif’s figure gradually vanished from his retina.
Huzaif spattered the water over his face. After a quarter past minute, Saif slowly unlock his lids, Image of his friend start to come into view. Tears dangling on the curvature of his lids,
Huzaif again; will you tell me now what happened to you?
Saif Lost in meditation was shattered, his hopes and dreams were wrecked, his world broken.
Saifff! Huzaif hurled.
Saif replied, while the tears dangling fell down.
Mountains are calling me. I have to go.


- FICTION -