Under lockdown – Takbeer Salati

Let they hear the barbaric yawp for the last time. That’s my home, a disjointed cluster from the eye of the newly polished Glock-17. Well, I am assuming the brand but he surely is using a high metallic rifle . I came from the nowhere land of the freedom and sunrises. Sunrises are pure,the azaan from the mosques and the liberating spirit the early hour has is better than the voices coming from the uncensored loud speakers. The birds mostly migrated pigeons relaxing on the top of the minar of Dargah Sharif resonated the serenity that was timely regulated. It was two days since the curfew had been imposed and it went back to the times when Kashmir was flooded. I remembered the echo when I screamed on the flooded Kashmir. The terror of sleeping that night grew intensively because I modestly thought somebody in the far area of the water called back to me. The hopeless creature the human is. Then even the birds were out of the sight, failing to order themselves the curfew passes. The rifle eyes, the third eye of Kashmir were back, this time in the want of the final judgement. The ideologies of education, finance, commerce were called for a slow-motion death. The streets were paradoxically graveyards for the time collision. I remember from my graduate classes how George 111 under his rule became mad and the people had to decline his position of the nobility. The period is often termed as regency or the regent period because of the heights of the selfish savage human pursuits that took place. The streets roared ,the wheels of the army cargo vibrated the hearts of millions . From the corner I saw a local family locked inside the chambers of the unwanted paradise. There was a television placed right in the right corner, pink curtains coordinating with the color on the walls were placed cinematically after the end of the hero’s performance. The cushions from the nawabi style were placed linear to each other. The wardrobe which was placed on the left side of the curtains was a walnut wood carving the exotic from the orient. At approximately 11:40 A.M a woman entered with the basket of the thread and started weaving. After weaving a certain portion she placed it at the right side of the shelf and started to walk. Approximately after ten minutes she came back to start weaving again… It continues for as long as my sight could reach her, nearly for two days consecutively. I wandered through the streets to escape the terrors of the local regent period, and found out there was none. In the same lane every member of each household did the weaving for the two days . I curled down on the streets, full of pain, agony, spiritual loss. I called for the rebirth and it was declined. At the moment I felt like Christ from the last supper, where he was betrayed by Judas. The shepherd in my soul cried the unheard yawp!