A Ritual Of Blinding Virgin Eyes Poem by Nida Nawaz

(Dedicated to those young children of Kashmir who lost their eyes for ever to the pellets of 'security forces')

It was a fine day
Or so it seemed
When you stepped out of your homes
Gingerly holding on
To your father's little finger
Your mother's long gown
Lest you would get lost
In the world outside
Little did you know though
That there lurked behind
In dark shadows
Round the street's far bend
The all too familiar cops
Whome you would address
In all your innocence
As 'soldier uncle'
Waiting for you to come near
So that they could snatch away
Your lovely little eyes
And all brilliance
That belonged to them
Your lovely little eyes
That were virgin as yet
Quite uninitiated as yet
In manoeuvering their curiosity
Through the spectrum of colors
And chiseling dreams from them
Your lovely little eyes
That were yet to know
The ways of the world
Meandering through silly differences
And bitter experiences
Your lovely little eyes
That were still very pure and fresh
From their first brush with the alphabet
And carried on their pellucid pupils
Lilting images of dolls and teddy bears
Besides a thick outline of round
Glass rimmed spectacles
Dominating Gandhiji's pencil sketch
Your lovely little eyes
That blinked and shone incredulously
While watching on television
Just a few days back
The Independence day celebration
Of Indian nation
Marked by unfurling of the tricolor
At Redfort
And the ritualistic release
Of white pegons
All of this is however
Past now
Well past you, for ever
For you have lost the grasp
On your father's little finger
Your mother's long gown
Lost as you are now
In the milling darkness of gloom
Stranded helplessly on the margins
Of an epic
Called life
You might at times
Find your imagination work its way
Through the contours of Indian nation
Only to find a rash of silhouettes
Images and reverberations
Some quite queer, some intimidating
Play in the constricted gallery
Of your mindscapes
Silhouettes of a map
Sketched out of drab darkness
Scary images of heartless soldiers
Deafening reverberations of pellet gun fire
All converging into an endless void
And every thought
Whether fleeting or studied
Of the Indian tricolor
Would churn up within your being
Dark melancholia
Strewn with the images
Of bloodied eyes and tattered wings
Of white pigeons
All across the sky's of historic Red Fort
And the familiar thick outline of round
Glass rimmed spectacles
Dominating Gandhiji's pencil sketch
Would appear to be nothing but
A poor camouflage
For an elaborate plan of violence
Drown into the creases and furrows
Of his face.
{ 24 अगस्त 2016}