This is a photograph of our home in ruins. It was recently taken by my uncle who visited Anantnag for a festival.
The view from the window is all I have been thinking about since.
I have been upset over not being able to travel to Kashmir because my father got too worried by the recent news of turmoil in Anantnag. There isn’t a way to counter his argument, “We didn’t come this far and work hard all these years to let you go back and get hurt. We won’t be able to live with that. Don’t you realise this?”
I do realise and then I think about the death of two policemen, one of whom was married to a girl from my village. I think about that girl and her life. I think about the absurdity of both our lives and how Kashmir has torn apart so many of us bound to it and yet, we can never seem to want to cut off ties with the valley. Isn’t that one supposed to do? Find a different branch to nest on? Cut off the limb to prevent the gangrene from spreading? There will never be a time when Kashmiris can do that. I wonder what ailment this is and what is the cure? I want to return and she wants to leave.