Did you hear the news of my murder? You must have heard about it or read it somewhere:
Khalid- The immortal is not anymore. Yes, I’m dead. Demised, deceased and laid to rest, somewhere in the Martyr’s Graveyard of Tral. The atmosphere outside is concerning, yet so enchanting. People talk of revolution.
It was even more enchanting a few days before when I went to the grand Tulip Garden of Srinagar with my friends.
I’m not shackled here like I was when among you. Why don’t you hear my stories? Hear the plea of this broken heart for it is finally free. Don’t worry. It’s not the same here. Life there is of no considerations, you are not allowed to take decisions in your life. They are taken by the people who guard you. This is no lie. My life may be of compromises. The story, certainly, is not. I was a balloon there. I was a football. I was pricked upon whenever they wanted. I was kicked by whosoever, whenever wanted.
I met my comrades here, who had left before me. I met Jalil whose death anniversary we commemorated only some weeks before. He talks philosophical wearing a beamish smile. He wishes he could have pleaded more cases in his life. He misses his red tie which he used to wear. Wasn’t that studded with dots of dissimilar colors?
Sigh! Didn’t I leave for Pratap Park in Srinagar to join the mothers in APDP gathering? I met many of the disappeared sons here. I heard their tales. They can see their mothers holding placards. They are too emotional. Find out their version as well:
“I can read the writings over their banners- MISSING- WHERE IS MY SON?- THIRTY YEARS PASSED. She has not given up. I love her spirit. Her dignity lies in her search for me. She has got my only picture that was taken during a crackdown in our village. Way back! She had raised the same with the placard higher this time. Her arms are not tired. They are in a state of enthusiastic waiting, like the country of Kashmir itself, waiting to embrace me. I too long for a meeting. I will tell her about sad things in life. I will tell her of love. Ah! She is mother. I would rest myself in her lap for a thousand years. I will live inside the cover of her love. I will hide my tears, not in embarrassment, not in fear but in delight.”
I have got a story to share with you. When I entered the gates of paradise, I was received by a countless number of Hoors. Then, a pari came and a brume whirled her magnetic shadow. I was hypnotised for a moment and wished I had a pen in my hand. I badly wanted to write that unknown poem that always got me out while I played cricket. I remembered that unknown page of my diary containing random notes that I always wanted to assemble and make a proper collection:
I will set myself into your eyes. And perhaps, I will weep for a while. I will hide my tears, a kind of embarrassment will hide them. I love the movement you make when you bite your lower lip with your teeth. Don’t you hide something? Tell me what you hide. I love the red scarf you wear. I am not silent for any reason. In my language, love and silence are synonymous to each other.
I am sorry to stop myself from writing to you from the other world because I want you to be happy. I do miss my cricket. I do miss the white jersey with that S-Mark tag. I do miss my team. I miss you all.
Ah! This is not the right way to end a letter. I was a literary zealot there. Wasn’t I? So, let me finish it my way. Let me quote the great artist whose lines I used to scribble on the front page of my notebooks:
“So I wait for you like a lonely house
till you will see me again and live in me.
Till then my windows ache.”