Sidhartha Shishoo

OH, KASHMIR!

From this day, every week I will be sharing with you some realities, some pains, some hopes and some anguish of our people through my poems. The sole purpose is to remind all of us about the plight and conditions of our people who are not so fortunate, so that we endeavour to do a small bit for them.

Tattered Tent

Moribund

TATTERED TENT

As the eternal Sun whittles in strength, so does hers,
Seen the Unwanted, wanted the Unseen all her Life.
In hope of Blissful old age,she toiled through prime.
Sheltered yet without home - home of love and security,
Married off children-never compromised intregrity.
Now tormented by Sun and Snakes - her limps cannot stand.
Grief of lost identity and nostalgia of her lost land.
To die in peace at home, daily she prays,
Death unavoidable - might become Sun's rays.
Wrinkles engraved tell her agonising plight,
Alone under her tattered tent -home not in sight.
Whom Chinars gave shade, whom Dal gave water,
exists bare under the mighty Sun as her sons scatter.

I earnestly know that each of us can contribute a lot in spreading the message across, so that each of us feel obliged to serve the land of our birth in whatever way one can possibly do. As Euripedes said:
" There is no greater sorrow than the loss of one's motherland "
Let's show that we still miss something in our lives.

Today I devote my poem to the Mother who nurtured me through my childhood, today that mother is dying. But how could she die without her children away from her? She has to live, but to live, she depends on us, for as long as we feel her in our isolated lives, she breathes.

MORIBUND

What if I am dying, shed no tears, My children,
Let eyes well up for the countless sons I lost,
Give yourself to guileless orphans I burden.
Your sunken eyes, my children, Don't let me die.
What if I am plundered, show no pity, My children,
Let geniality arise for those who live in open,
Pity your hands that serve not the cause,
Your pitiful faces, my children, Don't let me die.
What if I am a problem, cite no solutions, My children,
Let priggish minds cross all boundaries for a common cause,
Solve conflicts within or lose shall you yourself,
Your doubtful minds, my children, Don't let me die.
What if I am past, recall no memories,my children.
Let hearts relive the nightmarish trip to safety,
Recall the hecatombs of fraternity left back in hurry,
Your nostalgia, my children, Don't let me die.
What if I am dying,fear no absence, My children,
Let hearts smoulder like ashes of the dead,
Find me in each groan, see me in each tear,
Your nomadic lives, my children, Don't let me die.

Let not the mother Kasheer die in us.......I pray to you and to God !!!

Today I address my poem to all of us who have taken the inflicted pains & agonies as part of our destiny. As Longfellow said,"It's not my fault, its my destiny".- that's what we believe in and content with. But its very hard to imagine someone leaving his/her mother and having no pangs of separation, and having no urge or longing to go back to one's mother. Even though, some of us do feel the separation and moan about it, but we do hardly anything about it. I hope my few lines below would help us to act rather than curse our fate all the time.

ENOUGH IS ENOUGH

Oh ! Dumb conscience of living dead,
When shall thou rise, enough is enough.
Endured through ages, Now vent your agony.
Peace loving thou are, But enough is enough.
Abode thou left not tolerance, Its no fate.
Exhibited much intellect, enough is enough.
Saved thine honour not manhood, wept enough
Begged much rice and pity, enough is enough.
Plight and tales of woes, enough spoke and wrote,
A recluse and prig thou lived, enough is enough.
Passed enough resolutions, now do or die.
Rights thou dared not defend, enough is enough.
Cataclysm thou endured, vapourised thine zeal,
Home though haunts, not awakes thee, enough is enough.
Awake, Oh Souls,
To the groans of thine mother,
Awake now or never, enough is enough.

Let's show we care....

My home-sweet home still beckons.... The place of my birth, those faces who befriended my childhood I miss them all. This poem is dedicated to them.

PROMISE

The place so familiar- perhaps at home.
Its lanes and bylanes-playgrounds of my childhood,
The friendly milkman, the neighbouring baker,
The vivacious pigeons perching on rooftops,
The roses in my garden,my arrogant gate,
I missed you all- I shall tell them now.
The cosy home, my old wooden almirah,
Those fifty three stairs to my window to heaven-my room.
The icicles hanging over the windows, the glacier sleeping on my rooftop,
I can touch you again - I shall tell them now.
The reverie ends each day with a teardrop,
I incomplete-cannot have them, cannot leave them.
I shall return to you one day - I promise them each day.

Let's all promise them that we will return.....

How does one become a Kashmiri? Is it by his typical Kashmiri accent or his parrot nose on a fair face. Or is it his culture, his beliefs, his language which distinguishes him from others ? My poem today is a peep into a future wherein our progeny shall have some questions which we all will have to answer.

DILEMMA

"Can I know where I belong ?"-
my guileless tot enquired.
Aeons later, a curious quest of a soul induced nostalgia.
But,
Banal soul of mine had no answers.
"Why should he ask so ?"
"I am his identity !".
Still,
I-skeptical - repented to him.
"Left back the nerve to answer your questions."
"Do I own anything to him ?"
"Have I done justice to him and his progeny ?"
The delicate cords of culture I chopped off
as I left that land in hurry.
Thus, he bereft of his umbilical cords-
lives starved.

My silence enlongs his search for truth -
- A truth that shall give him an identity.
His desperation and agony protract my grief.
"If not the vale of flowers for him-
had I atleast given him an identity to live with !".

Let's all preserve the culture- the only gift we can give to our future generations....

Its been almost 11 years since I left Kashmir but the nostalgia stills smoulders me. Today my last poem is about this nostalgia and how it is shattered by harsh realities.

NOSTALGIA

Silvery soft flakes left heaven to cover
rooftop of my abode as I look up.
The tranquil travel as if fairies descend.
For days and months, Life enjoyed deep slumber.
And I...
Within my four walls lived in contentment-
of eras bygone, of the gifts of life.
Dreams to fulfil in realms of my own land.
I had no grudges, no knives.
My life was happy with me.
Nostalgia ends as Nightmare begins.
My tattered roof awakes me-
"We have guests !".
Monsoon had arrived !

Complacency is a slow poison which shall render our community rootless and banal. Today my poem shall try to awaken the dormant soul in us.

IT'S TIME

It's time to beckon all,
seek back identity we lived with.
It's time to rekindle the flame,
awake the soul that loves Kashmir.
It's time to nullify all aspirations,
live for that mother who nourished you.
It's time to vitalise the zeal,
render yourself to a cause that's our own.
It's time to see beyond self,
search your soul in the vale left behind.
It's time to bury all differences,
join hands to seek land that's our own.
It's time to raise one voice,
snatch back identity we lived with.

SEARCH

The silence ancient,
The place prehistoric,
The trees in the Clouds, And
I amidst,
In search of a lost root.
Shrivelled leaves agonised below,
With me- in search,
In search of a lost root.
The rustle nostalgic,
The labyrinths familiar,
Hopes in the dust, And
I amidst,
A lost nestling nearby,
helplessly in search,
In search with me of a lost home,
The search endless,
The place unbounded,
Agony in the air, And
I amidst.
Broken twigs curse the storm,
They too- with me in search,
In search of a lost root.

HOMECOMING

The doors ajar,
generously welcome me home.
My rose garden bereft-
- of springs that never visited.
"A winterly inferno did it"-
complain few half burnt windows.
Tearful ruins of my abode,
perhaps see a hope in me.
Trampled mirror of my mother's dowry
ask-"Why left me alone here ?".
Rusted roof awaits it decay,
"Would I ever be at the top again ?".
My return is their lifeline,
"I shall never leave you alone again".

Hope sustains life, and all of us, wherever we are, whatever we do, we have a hope to return to our roots. Today my poem brings that hope alive.

HOPE

The Tranquil days, nights cooler...
...In shade.
The Perkiness of existence, the comfort of being,
The worm loved its cacoon....
Could one hold back the time ?
The Scorching days, night dark..
....Without shade.
The bower plundered.
But,
Oh ! Spring, You have to come !
One day, green my garden shall be,
flowers shall smile,
and there shall be shade.

INDUCED CATACLYSMS

The sanguiness of the charming serpentine Jhelum,
Was the pot of sins so filled ?
The ruins of clusters of houses along the banks.
Was the foundation of our Goodwill so ruined ?
The sombre clouds eclipse the tranquil bens.
Was the history of our forefathers so blurred ?
The gradual defloration of flower decked terraces.
Was the air of our contentment so shrivelled ?
The drastic desertification of emerald green meadows.
Was the earth of our tolerance so devoid ?
The acrid taste of icy crystalline streams.
Was the nectar of our brotherhood so consumed ?
The volcanisation of the cool serene mountains.
Was the heat of our misdeeds so fire raising ?
The murderous silence of the vivacious pigeons.
Was the din of our catastrophe so thunderous ?
The various sights of cataclysms of Nature.
Was the soul of us Kashmiris so reared ?

Kashmiri Overseas Association

Poems from Young and Old