I would like to call the times around me as hell. People are getting killed—not old, mind you—the young ones are taking bullets right on their chests. Pellets are blinding people, and yet again, youngsters are up for that job too, they are on it, without any regret or remorse, thereof.
They seem to have fallen in love with all the mayhem that is around, to reclaim something, which seems to have raced far beyond from them, only to be looked at until it fades away, completely.
All this in front of my eyes, and I think if the same thing happens to continue, will there be enough young men left around to talk to? Let this thing continue for some more years and we will be all dashed off from the face of this beautiful earth; and from the face of this—commonly known paradise—Kashmir.
I don’t know why they call this place a paradise. It drives me crazy, and I am sure, they calling it a paradise must be driving this paradise crazy, too.
Look around, and try to ask, not people, but this paradise itself: is there happiness? Is there any serenity? A big no would be the answer, I bet. Ask this paradise: Isn’t it growing weary of everything it possesses? Isn’t it ready to throw everything back on the face of the people living on it? A big yes would be the answer, I bet.
Heavens do not witness bloodshed. In heavens, people live and not like what happens all the day round: dance of death—morning shows, evening shows as well.
People don’t die in the heavens, or what they call as the paradise, people actually live in it. But what happens is that we die every day and they get to live in it, what is this paradise? I don’t get it.
Yes, it must be the paradise for them, so they call it one. It is like they are out on a mission to sniff out what appears to be alien: we. They finish us off, all of us, be it those who offer stiff resistance of not being wiped out, and those who are easy to be knocked out. Like what happened to one of the alien some days ago—they crushed him right under the wheels of their chariot, thus eliminated.
Some are even more easier to be eliminated: a headshot out of nowhere, either during he is asleep, or during any damn thing, these other creatures are easy to be eliminated. They don’t even question their elimination, and if by mistake they happen to do, who is going to care?
They are on a mission and they are accomplishing it. May be, they will get it done soon, and this cursed place, their paradise, along with house boats on the banks of Dal, Shikaras sailing on lakes filled with blood, will all be theirs. Who cares, they can have it anytime, nobody lives in those house boats and nobody hops in for a Shikara ride in the lands of dead. Somebody tell them that they can have it all. Right now!
What is the problem? It seems like we are fed up of living. It is not their paradise, or have we given up, are we done?
I don’t know, but the speed of elimination says it all. We have moved far beyond than giving up. We are running far beyond the spot where actually we had to stop, take a deep breath, lit up a cigarette and think: what next? What lane to take? Which way to go? How to proceed? Finish the cigarette, muzzle it under the shoe. But, we did not; rather, we kept on running and running and running. And this endless thing had to manifest into something, which it did in the form of acute exhaustion.
We have exhausted. They were also on the same track, but they were used to pause. Think. Move. Stop. Light a cigarette. Look right. Look left. Wait and then move—they also took deep breathes, rather, thorough breathes: inhaled through their nose and exhaled through mouth, even did some yoga, too.
Yes, they did, we did not, and eventually, they caught us, caught us out of nowhere and are now eliminating us like flies—we have been reduced to more than that of a fly—no matter we think that God is on our side. He is not, so far it seems so; rest, we can talk about it, later, I guess.
The nation of blinds is in the making; this is what I can tell: a nation where a son is born to be eliminated, so that they can have this paradise.
Paradise that has been rendered no less than a prostitute, posing with all its beauty; its self appointed pimps selling its beauty to attract customers for one night stand, or for more than a weeks stand—in case the customer is interested in honeymoon. She offers it, and offers it all. Her pimps assure customers of her offering it all—a package they call it. All the satisfaction her pimps offer to her customers with guaranteed hospitality: her pimps say she is famous for that—of being a slut with hospitality, and mind you, she hasn’t led them down so far.
In winters, she is a slut with everything hidden under a thick layer of snow, but slut. In summers—Ah! She is hot then—a slut again. In winters, she is open for high-class customers, and in summers, she is open for customers who even stink miles away, but she does not mind. She has slutty rules jotted down by her very own pimps. Never mind.
When there is exhaustion, and something, for which you are struggling, running without brakes, has been turned into a prostitute by men, who also used to struggle, run and run without brakes once, but eventually turned pimps, what miracle should be we be waiting to happen? And do you still believe that God is on our side. He does not side with pimps, and surely not with prostitutes. Give me a break, will you? Let them finish us off and have this slut forever.