There is nothing called Paradise, at least not any more. There is a fallen-Paradise called Kashmir. There is a Kashmir that has holes, small and big, all over her body. Blood oozes relentlessly from these holes, holes because of bullets and pellets. Blood oozes from the young and the old, and Kashmir wails, withers, and shrieks even in the deadliest of silences. The heavy boots tromp on the petal soft breast of Kashmir. Under these boots- hands, legs, faces, chests, and genitals are crushed, of children, youth, and the old, of men and women . They are crushed as Kashmiris, not as Kashmiri Mussalmans, or as Kashmiri Pundits.
Kashmir is no more what ‘spring does with cherry trees’. It is what savageness and power play does to humankind.
I do not know what will Kashmir turn into – an Islamic caliphate or the Palestine of South Asia. But I certainly know what pellets can do, and what bullets are capable of. Kashmir is not about Mujaheedin and its extremist religious fundamentalism. Kashmir is not also about being called ‘India owned’ or ‘prospectively snatched by Pakistan’. Kashmir is about the 4 million people who have the basic right to live, and live without scars. Citizenship rights come much later, humanitarianism comes first.
Kashmir bleeds, every day. Kashmir wails, every moment.
Kashmir is about all those ‘small shoes’, that were, are, and will be never worn.