They don’t call me now;
Have they forgotten me
Or abandoned me here
In the silence of this room?

This is my room?
What are those hangings?
I never hooked them up there,
Did I?

I remember ‘The Mad Man’
That I was reading
On my bed,
Where is my bed?
Is this my room?

Even these shabby clothes,
These ludicrous clothes
Aren’t mine either.
We all wear
The same dress here,
Why don’t I
Remember anything?!

Tonight, I wish,
I could only see a bowl of rice
And little ‘Rajma’ with it.
Oh! That presentation.
I haven’t heard from Maa
For a long period, now.

Bleeding, Burning & Bruised Kashmir

I’m not in my room.
It’s been ages now,
In this eclipsed enclosure
Of solitude;
I remember that poke
With a muzzle
And smash
With that iron butt.
That’s how I lost my memory
Or I pretend it to be so.
Maybe not.

Outside, the wafts of air
Were lamenting,
It was all suffused
With horror;
And the sonic sounds
Of shells,
Concealed everything
From everyone,
The sky-high slogans
Never reached me.

My eyes, I opened
To a black tarpaulin,
Indistinct voices
Of haste and concern,
And the strong fumes
Of blood and phenyl;
I remember nothing more
From that place either.

New Endeavours

Now, I’m playing hide and seek,
With my heart and four senses;
I’m trying to know
The colour of these walls;
It’ s all black: no day, no night.
Just bleak and black.

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