By Sandeep Koul
It was late,
and…
I was just getting cosy,
drowsy
under the warm blanket
when all of a sudden,
I heard a loudspeaker
shout
in the neighbouring
mosque’s minaret.
The sounds pierced
much more
than the dark cover of night,
They caused
what was meant,
an unimaginable fright.
Lurid slogans
to drive away,
but mere words
have no power,
But so many killings, rapes,
what stopped them
from stooping lower?
Hit lists all around,
threats in local papers,
A comatose administration,
oblivious policy makers.
So away we went,
leaving home and hearth,
And the pristine land
where we had taken birth.
We had to flee in a taxi,
our luggage
was a change of clothes,
There was no space
for possessions
accumulated over
a lifetime of chores.
Even
the taxi faced
a mob,
our driver deserted,
Dad singled out acquaintances,
pleaded,
protested.
Somehow
we got out alive,
but all for what?
A ceaseless
summer,
a life of sweat.
The long queues
in the hot sun
for a fistful
of change
Identities lost
old folks
who can be said
to dement
and derange.
Still fools hunger
for a chance
to be back,
Even if
that risks
a fatal attack.
(A Mechanical Engineer by profession and poet by passion, Sandeep Koul is a Kashmiri Pandit currently living in Noida.)
This poem depicts the real pain and sorrow of Kashmiri Pandits