A Long Sentence From Kashmir

As a criss-cross of lights
painfully dissects my room, while
I stay in the city of dreams,
far from my haunted home,
where stains of blood map
the journey of freedom from
one bondage to another,
so that every time
someone asks me if I feel
fortunate or unfortunate to
hail from what is called the
Paradise on Earth, I hold the
framed photograph of me
as a child of eight, standing
between doting parents with
skin whose surface is as
undulating as the landscape in
the backdrop and my pulse
generates shockwaves into that
little paradise of bygone eras –
shockwaves that slowly shatter
the picture-postcard dreams I
nurtured as a child,
reminding me of all those ideas
I could never protect against bullets,
ideas nonetheless that lurk
somewhere behind the mainstream
head of a woman with a nine-to-five
slavery of a job in an alien
city. I smile and say that
Home is no more a noun, but
an adjective that qualifies this
long sentence from Kashmir.

The poet, Meghna Roy, is a student of Sociology at St. Xavier’s College, Kolkata.

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