CRAFTED CHAOS :Tales of Torment I
A piece of an apologetic art.
Stranger from a Distant Land: “How is it like living in Kashmir?”
Shahid: It’s beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful places the creator ever sculpted. The Jhelum River is the most intriguing though. In the morning it reflects hope, and by the night it carries away dead bodies of Kashmiris. During winters the snow washes away its colors. Come summer and Jhelum becomes red again. Come what may, but Jhelum flows.
Every drop of blood, rain, and tears, Jhelum takes with grace. The conflict makes its water boil sometimes, and on those days, Jhelum floods and drowns the entirety of creation in its depths. The story of Jhelum is the story of every Kashmiri. I, am Jhelum manifest.
Shahid: It’s beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful places the creator ever sculpted. The Jhelum River is the most intriguing though. In the morning it reflects hope, and by the night it carries away dead bodies of Kashmiris. During winters the snow washes away its colors. Come summer and Jhelum becomes red again. Come what may, but Jhelum flows.
Every drop of blood, rain, and tears, Jhelum takes with grace. The conflict makes its water boil sometimes, and on those days, Jhelum floods and drowns the entirety of creation in its depths. The story of Jhelum is the story of every Kashmiri. I, am Jhelum manifest.
Stranger from a Distant Land: “I would like to hear your opinions about the Conflict”
Shahid: You’ve asked for too much. Kashmiris can’t speak. Our voices are choked with pellets and stones. The ashes of Sufi Shrines have burned our throats. Even our silence cannot be heard. This conflict is an experience devoid of words. Slogans and screams try to mimic have been raised, but either your ears were too deaf, or our voices too weak. Kashmiris can’t speak.
Shahid: You’ve asked for too much. Kashmiris can’t speak. Our voices are choked with pellets and stones. The ashes of Sufi Shrines have burned our throats. Even our silence cannot be heard. This conflict is an experience devoid of words. Slogans and screams try to mimic have been raised, but either your ears were too deaf, or our voices too weak. Kashmiris can’t speak.
Stranger from a Distant Land: “Does it not drive you mad?”
Shahid: Every day I wake up sad. When I read the newspaper I become angry. By afternoon, the anger melts into tears. As the night wraps the valley in its arms, only emptiness remains. All conscious expression withers away.
Shahid: Every day I wake up sad. When I read the newspaper I become angry. By afternoon, the anger melts into tears. As the night wraps the valley in its arms, only emptiness remains. All conscious expression withers away.
Stranger from a Distant Land: “Who do you look up to during such times?”
Shahid: We are children of Sufis and Saints. From Bulbul Shah to Adi Shankara, Kashmir is guarded by spiritual energies of these people. Lal Ded is our mother and Bud Shah our father. We survive through their grace.
Shahid: We are children of Sufis and Saints. From Bulbul Shah to Adi Shankara, Kashmir is guarded by spiritual energies of these people. Lal Ded is our mother and Bud Shah our father. We survive through their grace.
Stranger from a Distant Land: “Which school of faith do you adhere to?”
Shahid: I change my hues as I travel across Kashmir. When I sit by the banks of Jhelum, I become a Sufi; my art is my conversation with Allah. When I visit a Naag, I surrender to Shiva; I sculpt deities in his image. As I cross the Zojilla pass, I meet with Gautama. The world becomes an illusion, as I wrap myself in a Pashmina. Conflict is the only constant faith I have adhered to.
Shahid: I change my hues as I travel across Kashmir. When I sit by the banks of Jhelum, I become a Sufi; my art is my conversation with Allah. When I visit a Naag, I surrender to Shiva; I sculpt deities in his image. As I cross the Zojilla pass, I meet with Gautama. The world becomes an illusion, as I wrap myself in a Pashmina. Conflict is the only constant faith I have adhered to.
