For The Love Of Hopes & Spring.

Once again, the melodical musings of birds greet my ears, interrupt my sleep & play repaetedly in my home of thoughts. I wake up to let my eyes wander in the boundless possibilities of the day. I can perceive the aura of spring blossoms yearning to wipe off the dust from the lap of feeble hopes. I bring myself to sip on nun chai (Kashmiri morning tea).

I let the breeze brush away my hopelessly pale face. I untie the knots of my hair. I let the words seeking warmth in the blanket of pages immerse in me to seek a shelter in my cold soul intstead.

But, the disputes in my mind, why don't they seek a home in the possibilities of a beautiful life?
The nun-chai which is known to serve warmth & cheer hopelessly surrenders before the ache holding on to the beatings of my heart.

Do you know what hurts? Do you know what's missing amidst the heavenly pinkish blossoms, a gleeful sky, divine sights & refreshingly unique mornings?

I miss the presence of freedom.
I wonder though, is the thirst for freedom setting my throat on fire or is it that I've never been able to savour freedom that serves me ache this morning. I wonder, yes.

What beauty would be the pinkish blossoms when blossoms of most of the homes are drenched in hues of red? What beauty!

What peaceful is the sight & breeze blowing around Dal Lake when streams of tears & blood are flowing faster than ever with breeze carrying lyrics of ache & eternal gloom?

What use is the blanket of beauty when with each day it's slowly being washed away by shades of massacre & bloodbath?

Even aura of blossoms couldn't vanish the somber aroma of gloom residing equally & silently in the hearts of Kashmiris & that of chaste blood spilling from the wounds of unbloomed buds.

I come to think that even if a prisoner is provided with all the comforts & luxuries of life, he"ll still be a prisoner behind shackles of crime for he's denied the right to breathe in the scent of being a free human.

So, this morning, I do not ask of a samowar of nun-chai. Just one sip of freedom will do. Let the breeze of freedom caress my face, for I'm no prisoner this morning ; I'm not going to be one tonight. I owe my life all the colours of a gleeful life.