ABSAR

(i)
absar cannot tell
red from orange.
with a clumsily held crayon
between her fingers, she
continues to paint
the rose orange
in her drawing book.

(ii)
the last words of the
aazaan had barely
trailed off the loudspeaker
that a massive stone
comes flying down the sky
towards the army cordon.
it was enough to set off Downtown.

(iii)
‘red, jaan! roses are red.
like our blood.’ says najma,
her mother, rolling her
prayer rug off the floor. the falling sun
tremendous on her smiling face.

(iv)
stones rain on the streets, as
clamoring chains of people pour
out of narrow bylanes. the army
immediately on the backfoot. slogans
and stones rise up the sky.
tehreek, they say, is kashmir’s soul.

(v)
i will be used any moment. i am
banned. but still i will. that’s how
they keep peace. by breaching
laws, by barbarism.
at the end of the street, the 'peacekeepers'
lose their shit. the water cannons
and batons are already biting flesh.
now it’s my turn – i hate this, i swear.
can we not do this, please?
oh! they already have me out.
the sky’s now dark with smoke.
my trigger is pulled.
now i don’t know where i am.

(vi)
absar covers her face
with her palms. the crayons
rolling about lonely between pages.
najma swallows tears
and screams for help.
‘ammi, red?’ asks absar,
with blood pouring out
of her pierced eyes.

- Sobhan