Kashmir was my gateway to India and has thus been my point of departure for a spiritual journey. The following was written in response to a story I heard on NPR which reported on a school house in Kashmir which had been devastated by the earthquake. After some five days two boys among hundreds had been found alive under the ruble. One of the boys was seriously in shock after laying the entire time covered in the blood of his deceased brother who lay next to him. In such a context the other troubles in that province seemed ever more absurd

 

 

Kashmir

 

before the army helicopters could reach

a hundred tiny breaths were breeched,

and lungs collapsed under mortar and wood,

wilting in a final gasp,

choked on chalked saliva under alabaster,

perishing with the saffron artifacts of Aryan minstrels,

with the sacred relics of saints, sufis, and shiv lingams,

succumbing under weight of two nation states

and two ton stones crumbled in a Himalayan earthquake,

which tumbled down upon a school house

shattering the shrill stillness of ancient mountains

and miniature eardrums tuned to gold playing on ghatam, santoor, and falling snow,

to pierce the chill of autumn seeping into

Azad Kashmir, or is that occupied Kashmir;

the difference now had no meaning

as the last exhalations of children were siphoned off by the same deity,

leaving small souls to rise, a shimmering dust of gypsum hands

blessing the crepuscular dawn,

as those last paradisiacal voices of the Valley fell silent,

those who could not yet remember, prayers or wars