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Kashmir Cries For Solution - Short
Kashmir Cries For Solution - Short
Story1: The story entails the depiction of a local bus at the outskirts of
heavenly land of Jammu, a bus in which are seated the flowering,
blooming, and spirited youth, the ones with happy and delightful
faces, with ambitions high and soul alive. The bus halts its speed at the
blockade set by haughty hawks who wave the bus to stop, suspect them
without proof, humiliate them inhumanly, force them ferociously to
rub noses to ground, rape women recklessly and murder men
mercilessly, soon the usurping forces attack and the whole jubilant
bus is butchered and massacred. what remains is ash. Ash of the
innocents… Ash of the honor, ash of the esteem, ash of the dream,
ash of freedom
Story 3: And here I am, the voice of Kashmir, under silent, starless
sky, standing on the ash, fragile, weak, hampered and torn, torn
because promised to me was an abode, and given to me is slavery.
Promised to me was glory and turned then me into misery, torn
because I know I am made foreigner in my native land. My
sovereignty is an illusion. my fate is but a bleak black burning picture.
Forced to dance I am to tune of puppet-masters. The air I breath is
heavy with despondence, helplessness and desperation. I deserved
respect, not given. Deserved honor: snatched, deserved freedom:
caught, deserved help: victimized, deserved equality: treated inferiorly
deserved love: given hatred, I am enslaved, I am burnt, , I am
engraved, chocked, banned, chained, I am devoured by dogs, foxes
and wolves. I cried and knocked at every door, every possible
arbitration for solution, I cried to provide the heavenly land with
freedom to free her from blood, from Indian scornful eyes and cruel
boots and to give her peaceful and free breath. I cried and knocked the
door of negotiation between Pakistan and India but of no avail. I
knocked the door of freedom through 3 fierce and bitter battles
between India and Pakistan but still of no avail. What I am given is
heinous beating in the valley of Kashmir, butchering in the streets of
Jummun, bombardment in Srinagar, and inhuman slaughter in
Ladakh, I bleed and bleed a lot crying for freedom of mine, crying for
abode of mine, crying and asking.
When will our gaze be relieved
by the sight of pristine spring;
how many rains will it take
to wash away the bloodstains?
When blood stains are not washed and eyes are parched, feet are tired
and body is torn, flames blaze the body, yet ears listen to the voice. A
voice that says awake. Awake and extinguish the fire, awake and get the
land of longing Awake and pledge failure will never course in my veins.
Awake and hear not those who weep and complain. Awake and be
likened to the rain drop which washes away the mountain, the ant that
devours a tiger, the star which brightens the earth, and the slave who
builds a pyramid. The voice says, awake and rise from ashes to glory
and greatness. The voice says: