How often do you actually remember him?
You left the dessert half-eaten
when suddenly his smile flashed
in front of you.
I do not.
Instead, I devour my meals,
my days, I spend engrossed in books
where lovers unite in the end or don’t.
Or die. Or are victorious against a tyrant.
Someday I’ll know,
what it means to be victorious.
Yet again, he doesn’t cross my mind.
I look at the playgrounds
and watch the kids smiling
when a friend is clean bowled.
He leaves an empty space,
that rubber ball stuck in the tree,
their tender hands don’t know
how to hold that branch of happiness.
The rage in their eyes speaks
of the din in their hearts.
Yet there is nothing
that reminds me of him.
The flowers that bloom around me
shadow the stench of blood.
I enjoy spring as it comes and goes.
The roses stain my finger, but it’s alright.
Blood isn’t news to me.
It’s normal to be washed in the blood,
everyone in my country knows.
The Woman does and so does the Man,
their Girls and their Boys.
Our blood is indifferent.
But we have the medicine somewhere,
I believe, it heals all the wounds.
And somewhere it has hidden his pain.
The pain isn’t news either.
Names differ in my books, but
tears are the same. Our fate is the same.
So I brush everything off my mind
and sip this densely black coffee.
I have heard stories, his father
walks in the alleys of Raz’ae kadal,
with an empty bag and a bat,
running away from reality;
for he had forgotten his bat
and his father says it’s his turn.
To help us strengthen the tradition of quality reading and writing, we need allies like YOU. Subscribe to us.
Sidra Nazir is a poet from Kashmir. She has pursued her Masters in English Literature from the Islamic University of Science & Technology, Awantipora.