The boy with a fishing rod

On the tranquil banks of Dal, a boy sits all alone,

His fishing rod in hand, his heart a heavy stone.

The waters glisten, memories of happier days,

But now, he longs for parents' love, in a heartfelt craze.

The gentle ripples mock his pain, a whisper on the breeze,

As he casts his line with hope, searching for some ease.

He dreams of days gone by, when laughter filled the air,

With parents by his side, a bond beyond compare.

The fishing rod, a silent plea, a yearning to be near,

For parents' tender love, their voices in his ear.

He gazes at the horizon, where the sun begins to set,

Wishing they were by his side, to comfort and to pet.

Their absence like a void, a puzzle incomplete,

He misses their warm embrace, their laughter oh so sweet.

He casts his line into the lake, a metaphor of his desire,

To reel back the days of joy, with love that will not tire.

The memories come rushing in, like waves upon the shore,

Their love an anchor in his heart, forever to explore.

He holds onto their essence, their love a guiding light,

Through lonely nights and stormy days, he feels their presence bright.

The moon above, a gentle smile, that watches from afar,

As the boy keeps fishing on, beneath the twinkling stars.

He knows that love transcends, time, distance, and space,

And in his heart, his parents' love will forever find its place.

So, the boy keeps fishing on, on the banks of Dal,

With the fishing rod in hand, a love he'll never forsake.

Though he misses their laughter, their love forever lasts,

A bond that time can't sever, as it echoes in his past.

The Stacks

i read through 
the stacks of bricks..
and wonder about 
the souls it binds..

The Eternal Lump

The recent image by Javed Dar took me back to my childhood when I attended funerals daily as my maternal home was near the Martyr’s graveyard of Eidgah. There was a day when I attended 12 funerals while we played our cricket match in the adjacent ground. Such cricket matches never reached a conclusive end. At times, we were so exhausted and emotionally drenched that we lost interest in all worldly things and sat on the boundary wall of the graveyard, waiting for the arrival of the unknown guest. 

We all have faced times when feelings started to overflow but somehow halted just below the throat. We pretended to be strong. We acted brave just because we never wished to be called the weak link of the chain that surrounded us and held us strong. We saw our elders holding the fort amidst the crackdown announcements from the masjids. I saw my grandfather standing upfront and not allowing the men in uniform to enter our house where only females were left alone while men were asked to assemble in a play-field for identification parades.

We never got tired while quenching the thirst of innumerable families who waited outside our home that was just adjacent to a security camp. They waited on the roadside, dawn to dusk, to seek the whereabouts of their wards who were picked up from the nearby localities. They mostly returned empty handed to return the next day.

Those sleepless nights when screams of boys filled the dark skies. We heard the cries escaping the walls of those killing rooms inside the camp. Those nights were scary and I hated the sight of the moon.

This image of the boy, Burhan Fayaz crying at the funeral of his friend Amir Nazir of Pulwama, prompts us about the loss, the resentment, imprisonment of soul, the outburst and the resilience. That eternal lump we all have been carrying along since decades. The legacy that we inherited and will further pass on to the next progeny.

Our baton has been our resolve. Our tears have always oiled the wheels of resilience.

We have come across two images of the same boy (Burhan Fayaz), one by Javaid Dar and the other by Waseem Andrabi. These two and many of their colleagues are our messengers. I am proud of our storytellers who are archiving our story for the times to come.

We share the same sky,

the same moon,

the same thunder.

We walk along!

~

Majid

(Illustration: An attempt with Charcoal / Javaid's image)

Home

I miss,

that haunting stillness, 

that deafening silence,

my frozen memoir of life,

some call it heaven,

but I call it 'home'....

~

m

Art to wait....

We have mastered 

our ability to wait.. 

Yes, to keep waiting for 

nothing. 

Have seen this trait in rich practice 

back home 

where we are aware 

that they won't return. 

Searching from pillar to post,

from meadows to the quicksand,

from north to south,

tilling the soil, 

looking for the remains

but the wait is on. 

While blending 

our helplessness and agony,

days became months 

and then years, 

and then decades

but the wait is on

endless.. 

~ 

majidpandit

A glimmer of hope

A few days back, battling with the restlessness due to yet another possibility of floods back home in Kashmir, I stepped out and tried to divert myself with a stroll around the lawn. On one of the branches of a tree I spotted a small bird chirping and flying around like a whirlwind. 

I went closer and found a nest on a frail branch of that tree. My eyes lit up when I found two tiny thumbnail sized eggs that looked like tiny white marbles. 

What amazed me was the beauty and craftsmanship with which the birds had shaped up their nest. A glimmer of hope enveloped me as I pondered over the birds' quest to start a small world of their own. The tiny green bird wandered around to get more twigs and bind its world together. It gave me hope to stand tall and face what this creation throws at us. 

The storms rise and challenge us in life but they die down too.

We the slaves!

We are living in times where by means of ever more effective means of mind-manipulation, the democracies are changing their own meaning. 

We live in a world where we have started depending on a system which is based on brainwashing the masses with series of propaganda. 
We have drugs that make us happy when we should be sad. We forget that there is a reason why we are sad and we need to know why that is happening to our body. 
The scariest thing is controlling our mind subliminally on the basis of data out of Internet searches, pages we go to, things that we click on. 

We just fuel their power with every product we buy. Funny that we find their product useful but don't realize they are only distractions. 

Are we loving to be their slaves forever?