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 Dr.
Agnishekhar is a poet and Founder, Panun Kashmir For a sensitive
writer who has made a significant contribution to world of Hindi
literature in the country, the immense pain, hurt and the sense
of betrayal on being hounded out of Kashmir valley on the basis
of faith and religion has been too magnanimous. Having suffered
too much in all these years of exile like the other 3.5 lakh
Kashmir Pandits who had to flee their houses in Kashmir in early
90’s and seek refugee in their own country, Dr Agnishekhar,
founder and convenor of Panun Kashmir, the frontline
socio-political organization of Kashmir Pandits worldwide,
floated Panun Kashmir to fight for their rights and to work for
finding a dignified and honorable return of KPs to their homes
in Kashmir in the form of a separate “Homeland” with UT status
carved within Kashmir Valley.
by Kavita Suri
These Poems are translated by Translated By
Arvind Gigoo
Fear
The gun does not terrorize me
I know its intention.
It is your
explosive-like silence
that terrorize me
I am not afraid of your ready affirmative:
“yes” ”yes”
Your chameleon –like smile
terrorizes me
more than
your plain face.
The desire for living
Terrorize me
more than
extinction.
The life of a poet
Writing poetry is
riding a red –hot iron horse
jumping in to boiling river
meeting restless soul that reside in memory
knowing the experiences of martyrdom
feeling strangled words on blue lips
living longings indeed open eyes.
On what paper
can such a poem
be written I oozing blood
expect
on an altar?
My dream
is such a poet
The refugee camp
This track
passing through the crematory
leads to
the refugee camp.
Breaks the rules of time.
Here
the children play
and
the old smoke.
Despair settles in wrinkles.
Here
the unseen wounded remembrances
are
in abundance
The track reaches us through the crematory
where we chant:
“Motherland”
“Motherland”
“Motherland”
A kite in the rain
It happens
in the backyard of the camp.
in rain
a child
has hidden is kite
in the skeleton of a dead buffalo.
and he comes
running.
He has lost
faith
in the tent
The Jawaharlal Nehru tunnel
The Jawaharlal Nehru tunnel
was
dense liquid darkness
and
we
the terror-stricken people
were
fleeing
in the fearful buses
All those years
The Jawaharlal Nehru tunnel
was
blackness
The water oozed.
It was
The mountain Panchal
weeping over
Nehru’s delusion
and
our fall
the buses were stuck
in the tunnel.
Even
the
smoke
merged
in to darkness.
The slogans
the threats
of the Jehadis
echoed
in our ears.
the gunshots the grenades
and
the hysteria of bombs
bellowed.
“Al Jehad”
“Al Jehad”
“Al Jehad”
in the liquid darkness of
The Jawahar Nehru tunnel
our memory wounds
were
astir
inside us.
in this blackness
the defilement
of screaming women
flashed across
our eyes.
On the doors
the meandering blood
drew
pictures of the past.
the tunnel trapped us
our faces were blue
and wrinkly
the lips yellow.
Our land of elegance
lived
drought for years
and
gazed blank
the rainbow did not appear
in the hollow sky
to make the lakes sing
and
dance ecstasy
in the flowery valley.
We were to come out of
the tunnel
and move
towards Hindustan
on the other side of mountain.
Our relief was
we had saved
the tremulous women
the satchels of children
and
years of the skeletal old.
We carried
five thousand years safe.
What remain there?
were whispers
and
the games
played in shade of
the Chinar
and walnut trees
our sorrows
dissolved
into the mountain fog
saw birds.
We lost
history
time
myth
gods
pilgrimages
fairs
customs
homes
their silent memories
fled with us
like the country cows
chasing
the loaded trucks
at dawn.
The rumble of the buses
In the blackness
was prayer
in the Anand Bhavan
of
Jawahaer Nehru
but it was not
allahabad
where
the Ganges
the Yamuna
and
Saraswati
meet.
it was
blackness
and
the chill
we were stuck
like a dust particle
in the windpipe.
They envied us
we were fleeing
from
Paradise
with the Chinar leaves
hidden in our shirts
and
the village clay
in our pockets.
We had gripped our souls.
In my shirt
I had hidden
Lal Ded
Whose touch
Kept me alive
In the liquid darkness.
“ You fool
who will die
and
who will be killed?
She whispered.
we were fleeing
through the manufactured rumours
untruth
was unfurled
in democracy.
it was
false bread
backed on a false pan
those were the days of
human rights
and we had none.
the sheep
in the quiet abattoir
were silent.
The buses rumbled
and
we were in haste
for
there was
light at the end of the tunnel.
Outside the tunnel
there was hope.
Outside the tunnel
there was safety.
Outside the tunnel
there were
poets
artists
and
saviour of culture.
Outside the tunnel
there was a wide open sky.
We got down from
the mountains
and entered the tents
at refugee camps.
They were the boils
on the holy law
of land.
We were
the swarms of insects
in
the protests
rallies
processions.
We leaped
amid the slogans
and
cowered
under
unjust torture.
Here
we forced
sun the acid
infernal heat
snakes
scorpions
diseases
and
saw the crematory.
The sky
was the quilt for our sleep
on
Hindustan.
How great is
my country!
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