Insha Malik, 14, on July 14 in Srinagar / AFP via Hindustan Times
(For the maimed and blinded children of Kashmir)
The sun was falling into the lake
like the red leaf of a chinar tree.
She walked, head bent,
holding her grandpa’s arms,
jingling her bangles to tickle her doll
and calming the breeze
that carried the chill of corpses.
The whiteness of the horse
she had seen that morning
was blossoming in her memory
like a huge white rose.
Four crows were exchanging bad news
seated on the roof of a shikara.
A group of women in black veils
moved like a dark cloud,
carrying a dead folksong.
Lotuses grew pale and shrank
having lent all their hue
to the evening sky.
Three trees called out to her
like a warning: ‘Nazeeeem!’
She had not noticed death
walking among the pedestrians
as it did not wear a body
nor leave a shade.
Suddenly she heard a voice
like thunder followed by rain.
Someone was driving nails
into every part of her tiny body:
She did not know
they were the nation’s fangs.
She screamed and looked up.
Her grandpa had vanished.
Everything had vanished.
It was dark everywhere.
That was how our dream
became a blind little girl
in bleeding clothes
and our future turned into
a cold endless night.
Translated from Malayalam by the poet. Also see Ankita Anand’s ‘Poems for Kashmir‘, Gautam Navlakha’s ‘Kashmir: Cry, my Beloved Country‘, and statements from artists and academics, and the Jamia Teachers’ Solidarity Association.
Cover image: Wondermondo.
