Trigger Warning: Some readers may find the thoughts discussed in this post disturbing.
So, here is another poem I wrote about my confused identity as someone from Kashmir, who has no physical connection with the land, or the trauma associated with exile. This was also published by South Asian Ensemble, like the first poem.
The Exiled Truth
Here I sit again tonight,
Bent over my study table,
Far removed from my long-forgotten reality,
Yet deeply attached to it.
I make another futile attempt
To comprehend the truths about my past,
Through elaborate discourses
Drafted by well-informed minds.
The picture of my past
Sadly remains half-painted into my present.
The elaborate discourses I encounter
Do little more than fighting
To find fit labels for a reality
They understand no better than me.
As they feign to answer correctly
The hows and whys
Of the time I was exiled
From my beautiful Kashmir,
They forget to mention
The colour of the earth on which I stood
As I bid farewell to my home
Burning in the unforgiving flame
Of senseless hatred.
They fail to describe the paleness of the sky
Witness to the fateful night
I had to uproot my soul from that home,
As I desperately sought a land
I could at least pretend to call my own.
Their curious eyes miss
The roughness of the spot in my backyard,
Where I hurriedly hid my memories,
Hoping that, on a blessed day,
Inquisitive hearts tied to mine,
Would unearth,
Or even relive them,
As they meander into
The ruins of my paradise.
Alas, the picture of my past
Will remain half-painted
Way into my future,
As the elaborate discourses
Fight over fickle labels
That don’t mean anything to me.
So, here I sit again,
Bent over my study table,
Far removed from my long-forgotten reality,
Yet deeply attached to it.
I still yearn to comprehend it;
Through imaginary discourses, this time,
Drafted by my own feeble mind –
Defeated yet determined.
