Heart Sinks in Gloom
Suhail Ahmad Sofi, 17, a student was shot dead after being chased down just a few meters from his home. The home of pain and gains where is lived, lied, cried and smiled for so many years. He too had dreamt and aimed big in his life, but the bullet has silenced his voice and him.
Dear Suhail, you’re the colorful Umbrella of all seasons. I am the peasant of my thoughts, I’ve lived, and you were one among the multiple of the reasons. Down the tubes of my veins I found you making a gateway of comfort. Isn’t it strange and heart-wrenching for the mother, the mother who has nursed her son for years? She takes a big leap, when she finds her son crawling toward the edge of a wall only to save him from the fall. In Kashmir, mother sing lullaby in a cradle or holding a toddler in her lap and would be also seen kissing the forehead of a slain son among the sea of people when she finds her son lying silent among the wailing faces. Suhail Ahmad Sofi, 17, a student was shot dead after being chased down just a few meters from his home. The home of pain and gains where is lived, lied, cried and smiled for so many years. He too had dreamt and aimed big in his life, but the bullet has silenced his voice and him. His friends won’t be able to hear him; neither his teachers, but they can only recall his activities. It would be etched in their memories he would be living in their hearts.
Unfurling the flag of any country in Kashmir is a crime! A serious crime it’s? No, only Pakistan’s flag is a bolt and jolt! Holding the flag might be the tiniest and minutest of the reasons, but it won’t entirely change the situation… Many can be seen pulling their lungs out and some spits venom from miles away by calling it the traitor’s act. And this Self-styled Arnab Goswami, an alien to us might have roared over the hoisting of flag in Kashmir on the arrival of Syed Ali Geelani, but he had definitely turned deaf when he would have heard about the killings of youth in Tral and now Narbal. Kanh Sozeouss Taar (Somebody, send him the letter). Let God deal with them! Hundreds die! Some for the loaf of bread and some for nodding head for doing nothing. Let God also heal. Your smile was the healing bunch of cushions. Thought a wind of anguish would sweep my life away, but you stood up for me like a valiant soldier through and through. This is what a brother, sister, father and more importantly and guardedly a mother feels while bidding an adieu to his dearly son. The tears flow like a rivulet, a flood within live with them. Some cherish it and hold it all along…
Many among us had seen the streets painted as red; thought blood is just colour for them. The Martyrs of the soil fought hard, occupation of oppressor brought mayhem in the past. Kashmir has seen enough during the struggle. It’s been the witness to the action of every barbaric act. Those who killed 52 innocent people at Gawkadal on Jan. 21, 1990, over fifty locals at Sopore on Jan. 6, 1993, 26 at Handwara on Jan. 25, 1990 and around 27 residents of Kupwara on Jan. 27, 1994?
The conflict-torn state is claimed by the democratic world as the largest democracy on earth, but when it comes to Kashmir it is felt as the withered autumn; paddy fields gets naked, flowers die in the courtyard, streams dry up, so as, the tears of a widow and orphan, the pangs of separation unites those who suffer. Colorful birds wandering and chirping all around sun shines at its lowest & makes a way quietly through the clouds of miseries.
The man is walking on the deserted road, so is the dog crossing it [road] at the corner, limping, and howling in pain only a sufferer can feel so. The weak horse dragged the half filled cart with the sand as if he was cursing his owner near the river bank. The drivers drove the new and old vehicles honking for nothing as the shops remained shut and streets mourned in the silence. During this spring, the green leaves of trees hardly bow and dance as the morning breeze seems fallen for something probably the Suhail of Narbal. The wind is away so as, the enriched walnuts. The sign boards are under the layers of dirt. The road is dusty so as, the heart of the men, the rusty men who shoot.
Oh! Oppressor, we will rise again from the same streets where from we played and had a stroll with friends and carried the heavies of the school bags. We will live. We will bloom again for the Nation for those who struggle to survive in this garden where it has seen the miseries. The pen will endure… Dear Oppressor, you will die too and it will be horrendous for you after killing the innocent people.
Mother should I tell you? What if I came home with a clothes bleeding red – soaked in blood! Mother should I tell you? What if I ever happen to return home without my shoes – left in melee. Mother should I tell you? What if you will see me lying on a hospital bed with needles piercing my tiny body? Mother should I tell you? What if you will find only my bag and books in the pile of rotten bodies? Please, don’t slap me! They returned me to you; in a shroud! Bandaged! I am lying before you. See me as much as you can! The bullet has only silenced my body and voice. Suhail, lives among you who could move on as it would be staying a treasure. Live for it! They call me a Martyr.
Love me – hug me and bury me beneath the soil. Remember, I will be among the richest ingredient in a soil for my nation; the soil of love that would pierce the haters and the killers, killings on the name of occupation. Mother I must tell you now I am dead for them, but not for you, don’t cry for me. Mother they shot the bullet in my back that was blind, but very sharp and rusty. It was aching, blind by faith and the name. But my faith in Him didn’t let me down I stood for my nation and I didn’t lie. I saw the dead bodies of brethren lying in a pool of blood on the streets of my motherland before. I am among one of the witnesses and I must go. Mother whosoever shot me while chasing they were surely chasing the medals and stars of this temporary world. The tyrant would die on its own although the stones are natural and are there for all… but these bullets are manmade.
I had thought of a new uniform, a new shoe, lunch-box and a pair of socks while walking down the dusty road. Today, I thought I would go to school again! I went to enquire about the school, my school where I wanted to share and enjoy the moments with my friends and they lost me in the middle. Mother I will be with you and my school – the school that me and my presence. Mother, I am Sohail, I am Tufail and so and so… But why this bullet pierced my body? And they say bullets also ricocheted… Why not now?