The day had been cut by clouds- unusual ones, looming across the horizon
from Pir Panjal mountains in the west to Zabarwan hills in the south-east.
The valley was quiet due to last nights rattling of bullets- 50 innocent men, children,
old, young, stout, weak had fallen to brazing terror leashed by the Indian Army.
We shuddered in silence, the strongest held their breath, the batons threatened death.
We sat in darkness- the day was so. Each one busy in prayers. The roads were forlorn
all day, winds myriad crushing leaves. The birds had less to say, torn inside,
the song was slain like so many. Roadside flowers wet for blood, expended their
bloom in vain. We stood our ground, fretting and numb.
A sudden roar in the narrow alleys across the road drew out our attention, at once.
The bodies were handed over. Cries were heard, bringing the quiet day to a shrieking
end. The skies protested in a way too- crimson at the horizon. Moments later the
trigger was pushed yet again. Protesters laid in pool of brazen red. In the remorseless
eyes of the murderers, that blood revolved. Incentives they lewd over the dead- mader *****
aur maango azaadi.
A short memory knock, from Khanyar massacre, May 1991.
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