 |
| View from shikara. May-June 1981. A long ago and far away Kashmir. |
All
night long I dozed fitfully
dreamt
of elephants crossing the Alps,
of
Carthage and Rome. Deep furrows of salt.
And
oaks and pines, higher than gothic spires
made
into Viking masts sailing cold seas.
The
children kept waking, fretting, calling.
Mother.
Father. What’s that? Is that shelling?
Why
does the horizon glow so eerie red?
What
is that horrible smell on the breeze?
I
quietened them, wrapped them in my steeled arms
inches
from where my heart was racing against theirs
sang
them lullabies my grandmothers once crooned.
Go
to sleep, the light of my eyes,
horizons
get eerie just before sunrise,
thunder
carries in the stillness before dawn,
they’re
somewhere far over the mountains,
somewhere
far from home.
Grandmothers
used to say that everything
that
you were destined for, or that was destined
for
you, had your name written clear on it –
grains,
cups, ganga jom’na paar, scars, bullets.
They
were women gnarled by hardships, moulded
by
wars, collaterally damaged inside
and
out. Fault lines, frontlines and famines grew
them
to formidable heights and shapes, staunch,
unflinching
as fortresses. They had the right
lullabies
to soothe children to sleep
during
battles and in peacetimes. They could
slice
fruits translucently thin and feed hundreds
from
one handful of rice and two fishes.
They
knew how to stare down famines, disease,
unknown,
eerie red horizons. Burnt paddies
wafting
in on the breeze. They rarely slept
through
the night. Dreaming wasn’t an option.
The
dawn comes in overcast. No more sound.
No
birdsong, nor call to prayer, not even
the
faintest shelling, nothing but the clouds
emptied
of the death threats. The horizon
innocent
of flashes and our senses
suspicious
of this explosive silence.
The
street’s pockmarked with thumbprints of conflict.
The
news comes later, trickles in through phones
on
grapevines of fear. There’s a ceasefire.
Is
it over? Father? Shall we go back
to
school? May I go fishing now, Mother?
An
army vehicle clatters down the street
checking
for last evacuees. I scoop up
my
grandmother’s old hand knitted blanket.
She’d
knitted my name in it. We step out
and
I notice, as if for the first time –
the
door has my name carved on it as well.
Title 1) Mother's Day 2025
Title 2) Carved names
Title 3) Ceasefire
Title 4) Compose your own
Please let me know your choice in the comments. The title is the hardest part.
I'm glad there's a ceasefire. Anything that brings peace closer is to be welcomed. Not sure it will lead to anything lasting though. And I'm gutted at the way it has come about.
Once upon a time our PMs used to refuse to be pressurised, to let other countries, no matter how mighty their global standing, meddle in our business. We didn't have a top ten economy, but we had a spine and some respect out in the world. Now we meekly let another nation broker ceasefires and decide our tariff policies without a cheep. What can I say? I miss the sagacity, the statesmanship, the reverence for country over party, the commitment to democratic values and the political acumen of my previous leaders.
Once you've lived in a country led by towering personalities, it is awful hard to live with petty, braggadocious, incompetent politicians who don't have a shred of self respect or give a @#*& about the very people who've elected them to the position they hold.
I hope your week has gone peacefully and that you're nowhere near any situation that requires a ceasefire to be brokered.
