Here am I, living in a muddy house in the lap of nature, farthest from the crowds, in mesmerizing beauties, on lush green carpets, surrounded by mountains that kiss the skies. No wonder if people call it a paradise, but isn’t it that paradises get lost. The fall of Adam illustrates it in the finest of the manners. But who make paradises go lost, a Satan indeed. Who else have the guts and the nerve to fatter with the Devine design? Devil manifests in many forms, hence is hard to grasp and to overcome. Sometimes as an oppressor it do oppress, try to bulldoze all what sacred and ethical exist here. At other occasions it try to tarnish all beauties of truth and faith, shows the courage to mutilate the belief that has strong groundings and foundations. When asked, aren’t you a mischief creator, the reply comes that nay I am not, what I am, is well wisher of yours and a messenger of peace. I bring peace, development, dignity and love. All false claims indeed! Beautiful traps to trap and colonize the minds and the intellect. Knowing fully that intellectual colonization is the worst of all. So he is on his mission, a cruel one indeed!
Here I am, looking on the weeping mountains and their miseries. They have buried enough of the unidentified bodies of young heroes, drunk enough of the blood. Their chests have become heavier, as the weight of the dead and decomposed is piling every day. The vultures are becoming fat and obesity has befallen them all. Has mercy vanished or have the species of beasts increased? Their tears are making it in gushing rivers and oceans; all is not well and cannot until blood and water is mixed together.
Here am I, living in a place where winds of pain uproot all the buried injuries to pain us afresh. They bring the filthiness of occupation with them that bruise the already bruised souls. The pain of occupation is severe of all known pains. The force of the winds tosses the heads of all budding tulips and roses to break them. What concerns them is status quo, and any head that stands tall must be hammered and lowered down. Revolutions have been buried in the text books of history. So, no more courage for no more revolutions. What makes them so ferocious is the power of might. This ferociousness is indeed barbaric. The mighty winds cause pain, agony and make the life fade in the midst of blooming springs. The brutality does not end here, the hissing sounds of the wind are poisonous than a deadly snake. It is difficult to live and easy to die here and life is nothing but a painful wait for the death. Is there anything good that winds ever do? Oh yes, they carry the pollens far and apart to bloom new lives. But alas! Under poisonous shadows no new lives bloom.
Here am I, living in an unfortunate land where the sun rises to pronounce the doom; as living to see another day in separation with the dear ones is indeed a dooms day. The dammed and unruly sun rises to see an older father carrying the coffin of his young son. Coffins that are smaller are perhaps the heaviest to carry. The sun rises to see mothers weeping on the funerals of their dead sons. It is no more soft or gaseous now, but has turned rocky. The moon indeed follows the sun. When in the darkest of the nights the moonlight brought solace, respite and courage, but in this part of the world the moonlight is no more lovely and pleasant. It increases the pain of being alone, and away from the beloved. Loneliness eats up the very vitals of human beings and when they are half widows their pain and agony crosses the boundaries and become unfathomed. They live between hope and despair. Hope keeps them alive and despair kills them every day and every moment. Their whole lives oscillate between these two unending maximums. They are waiting and waiting and the wait goes long and long enough to overshadow their lives. When they die, their eyes refuse to shut down, as nothing else goes with them in the grave except wait. Their eyes are filled with grief along with millions of unanswered questions. The graves are closed but the eyes remain open, they pierce through the soil of graves in search of a glimpse of their beloveds. Ah! a great wait of a great lover. Love is indeed painful so is wait.
Here am I, watching on top of a mountain how springs are fighting hard to bring back the lost glory and pride to this paradise (virtually lost). They have risen to challenge the narratives that have spoiled the entire scene. They have risen to challenge the authority of winds to dismantle, to shatter and to uproot. They have risen to bring solace to the bruised souls, to the widows and the half widows. Spring always comes with courage and hope. It brings glory, pride and beauty to the dead lands, barren topographies and barren wombs too. Life blooms when liberated and one need to understand that liberation is not an easy task. One has to bear the labor pain before being liberated.
Sheikh Javaid Ayub is Assistant Professor Political Science
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