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An Introduction to Spoken Kashmiri



A Poem About Death

by Dr. Sushil Fotedar

One more death around me today. The same lifeless body. The same wailing and moaning. The same helplessness. I see many people dying ; that is my professional hazard. But I have never gotten used to death. Nobody ever gets used to death. With each vanishing act, one feels a part of his being ruthlessly chopped away; so, by the end of the day-- it is anybodyís guess -- there are big, gaping holes in our souls.

Nothing ever gets repaired.
Nothing ever gets filled in.
Nothing ever gets well.
But then,perhaps, one has to die in order to be.

Let me recite a little poem for you:

"So Death
Let me paint you
And then eyeball you
In mock helpless anger

There you are
The colour of emptiness
Holes for eyes
A smelly vulture's beak
Rotten flesh dripping from every limb

Yes there you are
Hovering perilously overhead
Like the sword of Damocles
Hanging around
Some innocent corner
Ready to gulp down
The next unsuspecting victim

Are you
As Jobs said
The most important invention of Life
May be
May be not
But yes
I have recognized you now
My Mother
You are the one I always missed
I love you
But I am afraid
Hold me lightly
Let me enter you
With the peace of nothingness
In the hollow of my heart
And be one with you."



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