Dry rose of Kashmir

She was only 14….
Having dreams of a big girl..
No time for teenage tantrums…
Or playing hide and seek….or
A desire for prince charming….
She had to run…
Run for everything…
Run for life…
Run for time…
tuition…
hartal…
curfew…or..
Funeral…..
She knew the lesson of “life in conflict”…..
Torture…
Humiliation………………..
Yet….she kept running until one day………
When sky had turned grey……
When trees were yellow….
When gloom had rested on village…
When sun had become wild…..
She was snuffed out of life….
lying in a pool of blood………..
Open eyes………………………..
murmering something which nobody heard…they didnt want to listen…it only breaks heart…..dying dreams and dying blooms…..
He was watching to make sure she cannot utter a word….
His finger on trigger……
But, ready to go home far from this village soaked in blood……
He would visit his family, share his action with his kids and feel the joy of blooming buds in his lawn…….after all he had invested lot into his family with kashmiri roses blooming in his back lawn…….
He would scold his family for not watering the rose plants in his absence. And, on every return to his lawn, he would watch rose blooms turning red hot before drying….
He would murmur in disgust and anger…..
His young kids keep laughing and mocking him from the distance…..

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