Meher Qadri
Forbidden to remember, terrified to forget; it was a hard line to walk.
In the most profound presence of an absence. The night she was raped stands Frozen in a monochrome frame of time. the only color filling it her absence. And the visceral violence. The only colour shrouding the sullen night filled with the violence e on S. Soon, S. became M. And M. became R. Later, the night became synonymous with the ‘raped twin villages”.
In a few hours, the unspoken had spread across the Realms the air thick with unease hushed Whispers And simmering anger.
Rage walked barefoot on the streets with covered heads and raised fists.
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The simmering anger turned into slogans and, over the years, houses turned into silhouettes of a stigmatized, forsaken land.
Hope ran against Time. In knowing the inevitable and accepting it we deal with the anticipated loss with bated breath and surprising courage. We are consumed by hopes, while hopes are consumed by time.
Men marched in hundreds to bring hope for their mothers. They returned only in tens, leaving more mothers and daughters in desolation singing lullabies and eulogies.
“Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.”
The walls, standing tall and tough, stained with blood are the testimonies of the dreadful memories. These have stood against the testing times and turning histories.
The dark night bears witness to the horrors unleashed on a quiet hamlet. Souls eviscerated and dreams crushed. The night replete with corpses walking home attesting a life turned into ‘lifeless brutality’.
Time has stopped in the wintery night. Her bruised bosoms that were buried are awaiting the springs to bloom.
A sea of people as I look out of the window. Colors, noise, Shrieks and a body shouldered by strangers. Fragile like a lifeless butterfly.
Her friend who went to bed with happy dreams is now in the daymare of a damp courtyard swarming with people— shrieking and shouldering more bodies.
Yesterday, she was bathing in the sunshine. Now, lying on the cold slab. Warm water glistens her skin like diamonds, her body cleansed off of all grime. But, she screams, “how will you wash the pain off of me?”
It feels like yesterday, but the pain is decades-long. That’s the thing about grief. It cages you in a moment for eternity. You live a life outside of that moment. But a part of you is always stuck in that unending moment of that loss.
Hope awaits In a dark abyss free-falling, only to hear silent shrieks of that night.
The photographs used in this story have been clicked by Kashmir Based Photojournalist- Sanna Irshad Mattoo