Let’s talk about that year.

That year that led our soil to be rich with tears. And as it appears, the judgment has been made. They’ve paid the price for their faith. Musulman there, Hindu-stan here and Sikhs, well, they can go anywhere?

Forget your forefathers son, what defines them means nothing now. What is done is done. You can watch the setting of the sun from your side, behind your line. Put down your shotgun, leave it there with your zameen.

What do you mean fourteen? Fourteen million.
Fourteen million uprooted from their homes. Uprooted like roots of a tree, ripped out of the soil that they belong to. And it won’t be long before they make weak out of the strong. Remove them. Displaced.

Son, let go from that embrace. That’s not our home anymore. You can watch the kites soar from the your side, behind your line.
We couldn’t even fight a war, we didn’t even have a chance for our lions to roar because they were all so sure that independence is here.

That’s not independence my dear, that’s just a remembrance that the colonialists ruled us and always will. Like a pill, drugging us with opium until we are too blind to see our worth. And here we are crying for a rebirth, a change.
Well isn’t that strange? This was meant for our own good.

Convincing us that this is what we want…
We used to love our Muslim – Hindu – Sikh neighbour, treated them like our sister and brother. But now they’re our enemy, they’re the Other.

A corpse filled train? Now tell me, how will I explain that the dead were refrained from being cremated? How will I get it in their brains that their remains, the skin and their manes won’t mix with the rain and fall into the rivers of my Panjab.

Five rivers.

Yet three are exclusively there, two are here. Tell me how is that fair? Whilst you sit there at the border every day at sunset and you cheer.

Two parts of the land stretch out their thirsty hands, and whilst for some their patriotism expands, others are desperately trying to let go of their homelands.

Border border, bringing some world order? Losing more than three quarters, burn down those borders.
This wasn’t migration. This was mass movement. This wasn’t an improvement.

Listen closely my dear, give me your ear. The blood is still spilling in the soil of Kashmir. Awake from this life of so called freedom and independence or continue to sleep into a nightmare.
Because we have been living a lie since that very year.


Jaspreet Kaur

You can read more of my work at www.behindthenetra.tumblr.com
twitter @behindthenetra

Leave a comment

Your email address will not be published.