Table of Contents
PART I: Snow in Srinagar 
  Reaching Srinagar
  The city of fame
  Rainy afternoon in ...
  Up the Sindh river in a doonga
  Snow in Srinagar
  Chilai Kalan
  Crossing the Vitasta
  Journey into the Himalayas
  Ishbar evenings
  Pony ride in the Liddar valley
  Views of Haramukh
  My father in Hawaii
PART II: Ten Thousand Years of Solitude 
  The Fire in the Waters
  Records of our lives
  Ask Krishna
  The Conductor of the dead
  A Wounded bird
  The riddle of Isha
  Patanjali's song
  The hidden path up the hill
  Inner Sarasvati
  Naming things
  On high desert
  A small beginning
  Seeking answers
  Nachiketa's dual
  Quantum implications
  Chance and necessity
  A Boy and his dog
  Book in pdf format

Koshur Music

An Introduction to Spoken Kashmiri



A Wounded Bird

You said I was a bird with a broken
wing. I am afraid that when you have
nursed me to health I might fly away. 


The sadness in your eyes haunts me.
When you have given me life and
I take my lonely flight (Can I help
that?) will it not break your heart?
Why do you breathe life into me, when it
will be the death of both of us? 


Do not grieve at my stony face. My
heart warms to your every smile, every
touch. I almost feel the strength to
fly. Shall I get well and lose you? 


That I love you is clear
since I ask you for nothing.
I would love you even if you went away
leaving my wing bleeding. 


I feel guilty that my condition
made you interrupt your play.
No, you have hung around me for many
days now, stroking my feathers, dressing
my wounds. Can I ever repay you? 


You have whispered in my ears
that I look so weak and wan that
you must help me. And what patience!
I haven't spoken, you still console
me with your beautiful words. 


Don't you realize that you are
wasting your youth on a
bird with shrivelled limbs
when your garden is full of handsome
admirers? They know many clever
games to amuse you. 


I admit I have called you sometimes
with my cries. 


In your absence your image has
lain with me. The shadow of
your soft hand has warmed my
feathers in the cold nights. 


Shall I get well and live with
you in a gilded cage woven
by your deft fingers
or shall I paint your form
on these rocks before I fly off?



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