The four ethnographic poems by Inshah Malik are an attempt to engage with presence in the politically charged location of Kashmir.
1
Home
Home is where life is not held ransom,
To whimsical maneuvers of wanderlust!
Yet, where mind takes flight and
Sits by the birds, on a tree,
Fixated in the soil of dissonance,
Picking by its beak
The scattered leaves of transcendence
Home is where life is not traded
For astute insistence of leaving!
Yet, it is from where we leave
Constantly taking brisk walks of imagination
And have our hands kissed
By the people of a dreamland
And take a seat amidst them,
Watching this epic theatre of life
Home is where life is not left unlived
For the scary flood of emotions!
Yet, where one leaves ones keys of return
And arrives briefly to wash off
Bloodied feet decorated with mud
And rubs of their scars of war
Home is where life is not lived
Against the consistent pleas of a death wish
Yet, where one takes flight away from death
And attaches ceremonial meaning to banal acts
And builds oneself a castle
From the roof of which
One looks on to paradise.
Home is where life is not paused
For recurrent thoughts of promises
Yet, where promises are made on a cold slate of life,
To keep seeing the recurring moon
And striding into space to find us homes
Made of imaginary nothingness
Where one is a prisoner of language
And promises are made only to be broken
Home is from where we are not expelled
During calm afternoon summers of peace
Yet, where we mold longing as heirloom in exile
When the massacre has left us
At the brink of mercy and keys are our only ornaments
And photographs are only proof of our presence
Home is where we have not lost any contest
Against all dangers imaginary or real
Yet, where all plots have been constructed
We have become soldiers and martyrs
Defending the indefensible
While guarding that must be dismantled
2
Funeral of a Graceful Woman
When I said goodbye,
I offered a pause,
To the gushing forth purge
Of your new rage!
In your tryst with life
You burnt to the butt
The only cigarette,
You were offered at the
Funeral of a graceful woman
Even today, the pause
Nestles reluctantly
Between your memories
Of agony and pain
Even now my moonlit face
Comes in your dreams
And you still find my pimples
The only cause of concern
I still valiantly claim
A bullet was fired last night
And my pimples were
Enumerating deaths
Of both our dreams and
The fascists that have held us
At the gun point of melancholy
I went away to watch
The canvas on which you painted
With your sobbing colours
I see the whole mess
Of your twisted existence
But I have no money
To buy and hang it
On my office wall
I'm still living in handful
Of water that you splash
On your ageing face
To remind you of what is life's worth!
And I'm still insistent
That I will live my best
And there is no resistance
Stronger than the act of living!
3
Rain and Dreams
The sky is pregnant
With a gloomy cloud
My eyes are transfixed
In anticipation
Rain is scarce in exile
But not dreams
You fed me
From churning happiness
And then I raced to get wet
Under pouring showers
That day I bid goodbye
To laughing for no reason
Hung on some expedition
I had to expose
As if, some unknown treasures
If the war didn’t break out in my country
Would you have still loved me?
I fought a different war
With no promises of freedom
But you are a war hero
And I remain only a lonely prisoner
If I didn’t question many times
Would you still have
Considered me a friend?
Yet, here I face stormy winds
Made of no coherent answers
What is this war called?
When it rages both inside
And in the street
Do you know now!
It doesn’t rain so often
In this place
Where I dream of your hands
Have you given up yet?
Did you marry?
Or have you settled down?
What is this war called?
That eats away slowly
At our longing
Where it matters little
If life progresses!
Ah! Rain has come
To undo my dreams
Of what lasts
Nothing is known
Again morning smells
Of winter spent in your arms
The tea kettle whistles
Memory is the only cup
Offered to me
In exile
Words are the only home
Offering a filial abode
4
On Becoming a Poet
I became a poet
When it became
Hard to say
‘I love you’
And I won't be a caged bird
I became a poet
When it became
Hard to grieve
Your loss
And remain your committed lover
I became a poet
When it became
Easy to kill
For Nation
In your land
And care very little about trampled souls
I became a poet
When it became
Hard to make known
longing for Peace
And intense urge for justice
I became a poet
When it became
A massacre in the town
And I ran out of tears
And reason
I became a poet
When it became
Known that your love
Came with conditions
And mine with slavery
I became a poet
When it became
A norm to write
Dirges at funerals
And fire bullets at weddings
I became a poet
When telephone lines were cut
And emotions were the only
Baggage,
I carried from home
