By Majid Maqbool
“Card chukha seath thavaan?”
(Do you carry the ID card with you?)
Mother worries over frequent phone calls
Away from home, home enters questions
‘Identity’ printed on a piece of paper
cuts through her voice; a discomforting lullaby:
“Card gase hamashe seath thavun”
(always carry the ID card with you)
Home leaves a permanent imprint…
On scattered notes, stamped on memories
At home, mother would tiptoe after me
At the door, before endless blessings, she always asked –
That question mothers have for their sons –
“Card tultha seath?”
From Delhi now, your question settles on my unrest
Identity – detached from the card – hangs heavy
This is not Kashmir, mother
“Toete gase card seath thavun…”
(Still you must carry the card with you…)
The line dropped on this insistence
I kept redialing, to rest her concerns,
her unfinished questions, unanswered
Hello..helloo… mother
Can you hear me?
I left the card at home, mother
In the back pocket of my worn-out jeans
Find: a fading photograph, scrutinized edges
And no trace of those unrecognized questions
forever inked on my memory
For troops to question my absence
The proof I left behind is not enough
That frisked ID card remains
like a festering wound, pocketed pain
I carry everywhere
Majid Maqbool is a young journalist/writer from Kashmir. Some of his writings can be found on his blog maqboolvoice.blogspot.com.
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