In Kashmir, where the year
has four, clear seasons, my mother
spoke of her childhood
in the plains of lucknow, and of that season in itself, the monsoon, when krishna's flute is heard on the shores of the jamuna. she played old records
of the Banaras thumri singers.
Siddheshwari and Rasoolan, their voices longing, when the clouds gather, for that invisible blue God. separation can't be borne when the rain's come:this every lyric says.
while children run out into the alleys, soaking. The utter summer.,
Messages pass between lovers.
Heer and Ranjha and others of legends, their love forbidden,
Burned incense all night,
waiting for answers. My mother hummed Heer's lament
but never told me if she
also burned sticks of jasmine that, dying, kept raising soft necks of ash. I imagined each neck leaning on the humid air. she only said:the monssons never cross the mountains into kashmir.
A TRIBUTE TO THE LEGEND
AAGA SHAHID ALI
LOVE OF KASHMIR......
Pride of my land...