Homeland after Eighteen Years - A 48 hour Travelogue

K L Chowdhury
127 128
Homeland after Eighteen Years
Why not switch back
to my erstwhile routine
and write a chronicle
of my 48-hour sojourn
since I landed here?
Writing seems the only recourse
to some peace in turbulence,
a catharsis for the pent up emotions,
a pick-me-up for the melancholy spirit,
a penance for our failings and follies,
an exorcism to drive evil spirits away
that have possessed the valley.
There was nothing inspirational
in this hurricane trip so far,
and my cherished visit to Paree Mahal,
that might have lifted my spirits,
was not to be.
Possibly, because it had always been
my most favorite haunt,
where I often hiked with my children
whom I would have missed so badly.
Possibly,
because the fairies of Paree Mahal
have also gone in hiding like the Hangul,
or been driven far away like the Pandits.
Possibly,
because I have to pine for and wait
for a propitious time to come here again.
Adieu
Life has come to a standstill
as the van takes us
along empty lanes and deserted streets,
passing by shuttered shops
and silent neighborhoods.
There are police pickets here and there,
outside State government buildings,
and on the two ends of the bridges
that we cross on way to the airport.
Other than that,
and except for a stray dog scratching lazily
under the shade of a tree,
Srinagar has turned into a ghost city.
Even the birds on the poles and power lines,
have sensed the mood and turned dumb,
and there is an airlessness in the atmosphere
that pervades everywhere.
If there are souls in the city
they are entombed inside the houses
for I do not even hear a whisper.
We stop at barricades manned by soldiers,
to display our identity cards and air tickets.
For now, let the rabble rousers self-indulge again.
For now, let them have another field day.