The afternoon light cuts through the Mayflower tree – clothed in reddish-brown- and gleefully rockets towards two children poking an ant-hill with twigs.
In the year 2040, we will eat money, and in the night, we will hear the clink of coins and ruffle of notes inside of us.
All night long, she whimpered and squirmed on the cold floor,
and twice she slumped against the nothingness on her way to the front door.
The wind rammed the windows, swirls of leaves swept outside,
While the moon’s presence grew scarce,
Leaning against the bed, I burst into a flood of tears.
I learnt the art of drowning at the delicate age of ten,
when I was neck-deep in the toilet bowl, gasping for breath,
my voice reduced to flailing arms.
When the children of Kashmir return home and the language of love is buried deep in the depths of every man’s memory, they will have to conjure every syllable their mothers sang that once put them to sleep, and build Kashmir again, not with bricks & sand, not with the tongues of another land, but with the love that a man has for all.