The name “Kashmir” means “desiccated land” which finds its explanation in the mid-12th century Rajatarangini, a history of Kashmir written by Kalhana, which accounts that the valley of Kashmir was in earlier times a lake.
The difference between Kalhana’s lake and the nowadays valley is that, in Rajatarangini the vale was covered by fresh water and this present Vale is all over again getting refilled by the overflow of tears and blood of the common man.
One can say that the lake and the vale have never-ending tie between. The vale has ever since remained inundated, either by the natural pour or by the heart pour.
Brutal forces from all walks of life; The Pashtun Durrani Empire, the Sikh rulers; Ranjit Singh, Gulab Singh and like, the East India Company, the two recognized countries; Pakistan and India, their men in arms, the political parrots, these and the rest are all on the wrong side of the law, if the crate of Kashmir is mistakenly opened.
The first sword run on the land, after the British disappeared, left it divided into three battling pieces; one with the China, second with the Pakistan and third bone of contention with the India.
How and who has blood painted the dale?
Is it the man sleeping underneath, on the busy-posh lane of Hazratbal Shrine? Did he sell his people and land for name and fame? Did his cliques continue his legacy of looting the land and the man on the same scale? They have a set game plan and that works consistently.
The poor and the browbeaten people receive astonishing attention once in a blue moon. All sorts of magnets are tested to crowd-pull the voters to the ballot box. The bargain of putting one’s cross on the ballot paper, time and again assures win of the political parrots at the hands of honorary voters. However, the underprivileged voter has very little to rejoice on.
With the guarantee of getting better roads, water and electricity, the poor common man betrays his sovereignty at equal intermissions by casting his vote. The day of declaration leaves him dumb, deaf and blind with a hapless hope on the subsequent elections. By that occasion the roads get wider pot-holes, ample enough to accommodate tons of water that could be used for both, drinking and electricity generation. The pledges get naturally fulfilled with no interest from the parched parrots. They have concerns greater to deal with.
Is it the man wearing the gun, the law protector, the warrior, the fighter, the soldier? Did he on gun-point steal the charity and chastity? Did he leave thousands of females barren and buried? Did he shame the profession he belongs to? Did he rape the law and the land ruthlessly? Did he tread on the blossoming buds before their bloom? Does his very sight scare the human soul – racing from zero to ninety? Does he in the name of law spread anarchy? Is he the god on this part of land? Are the young and the old battered by this guardian of peace?
The count of the dead supersedes those who are alive. Green meadows are day by day turned into ghastly graveyards. The marked and the unmarked graves leave one and all terrified to trample on the soil beneath. The ghostly thoughts of one’s missing beloved fill with fear the hours of the dark and the light. The custodian looks after well; he looks after the shrine of his felony fighting fit. He delicately worships this shrine and to it offers from time to time sacrificial goats. The sacrificial goats; the virgin deities of this sacred land are molested, harassed, raped and assaulted to please the demon-gods of his unholy shrine. Any voice of protest is there and then silenced by the shrieking sound of his handgun.
The majority, too, turned out to be jackals in sheep’s skin. The counting 25 years of miseries sown by them are forcibly being harvested by one and all. Guns from either side wounded none but the drenching dale.
Is the nature itself leaving no stone unturned to further its fury on the man in the land?
The devastating earthquake of 2005 stole the life that was pardoned by the gun. It tore the land apart to lodge mass graves. It shook and broke the houses to erect tombs in them.
Just Nine years on and the nature knocked the door of the dale again. This time it restocked the “desiccated land” with all the water that it came across through. The great flood of 2014 left everyone confounding and up in heels. People are still suffering, struggling, throbbing, complaining, aching, and still mourning. They want an end to their miseries. They want the full stop of pain and sufferings.
But who will save the vale?
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