Raneesha Rafeek

@ranee.esha

  • 93 Posts
  • 1 272 Followers
خیالات Bismil. She/Her. 🏳️‍🌈 Thrissur, Kerala
I am nameless/ meaningless.
I am unnamed to my faith, 
false god to my religion,
unfulfilled prayers and 
incomplete chores. 

I am birthed by rust.
A result from alliance
of two atrocities of decay.

I am a nation, built from blood
of afflicted, wrathful daughters. 

Music: The trees we wear- Le Trio Joubran

I am nameless/ meaningless. I am unnamed to my faith, false god to my religion, unfulfilled prayers and incomplete chores. I am birthed by rust. A result from alliance of two atrocities of decay. I am a nation, built from blood of afflicted, wrathful daughters. Music: The trees we wear- Le Trio Joubran

131
13
6 days ago
Azaan blares through the speakers of the masjid near my house. It stands tall and proud guarded by my grandfather. 
And at each call, it speaks to the unruly hairs on my body.
Each of them riddled to thier shame,
They bow in discipline when I demand them to pray.

Fajr-
My body lies awake, strangles the faith in the corners of my navel. I am god’s least favourite child. I thank my cells for their memory. Mother’s eyes births one more wrinkle— a medallion for not speaking out of turn in a majlis full of men. 

Zuhr— 
My ablusion has lost it’s leverage. No holy water nor the earth can sieve the sins off the creases of my forehead warring between eyebrows, burns between my fingers, flowered lips between my legs. 

Asr—
In the name of Allah, every Astaghfirullah is the quivers of my skin that protrudes in chaos, disoriented at the orbs that I wear as crimsons peaches. I pluck cobalt pearls from the tasbeeh left unattended since the day the kitchen of my house carried no sharp objects. Little children play with guns and grenades, aims at their own homes somewhere and I play with the knife that I hid, to my own hands. 

Maghrib—
Grief is building it’s own body. It’s hands have grown longer than the branches of Ammi’s bougainvilleas. Grief is birthed at dusk in the presence of remembrance. My hands are it’s father. I call prayer in it’s ears and name it Amina. Amina means honest.

Isha—
I sit with grief in silence. I see it trying to speak to the scared child living in captivity under my ribs. It is learning the language of poets. 
Both of us lie in sujud in the same direction. We count to the same number of la ilaha illa allah every night. I am called Esha after the last rakaat. Esha means alive I am told. I am alive. I am life. 

Then misery comes bearing gifts, walks me home. Fajr waits with longing for my attendance. I am an absent lover in it’s bed again. I am just a name without meaning.

Azaan blares through the speakers of the masjid near my house. It stands tall and proud guarded by my grandfather. And at each call, it speaks to the unruly hairs on my body. Each of them riddled to thier shame, They bow in discipline when I demand them to pray. Fajr- My body lies awake, strangles the faith in the corners of my navel. I am god’s least favourite child. I thank my cells for their memory. Mother’s eyes births one more wrinkle— a medallion for not speaking out of turn in a majlis full of men. Zuhr— My ablusion has lost it’s leverage. No holy water nor the earth can sieve the sins off the creases of my forehead warring between eyebrows, burns between my fingers, flowered lips between my legs. Asr— In the name of Allah, every Astaghfirullah is the quivers of my skin that protrudes in chaos, disoriented at the orbs that I wear as crimsons peaches. I pluck cobalt pearls from the tasbeeh left unattended since the day the kitchen of my house carried no sharp objects. Little children play with guns and grenades, aims at their own homes somewhere and I play with the knife that I hid, to my own hands. Maghrib— Grief is building it’s own body. It’s hands have grown longer than the branches of Ammi’s bougainvilleas. Grief is birthed at dusk in the presence of remembrance. My hands are it’s father. I call prayer in it’s ears and name it Amina. Amina means honest. Isha— I sit with grief in silence. I see it trying to speak to the scared child living in captivity under my ribs. It is learning the language of poets. Both of us lie in sujud in the same direction. We count to the same number of la ilaha illa allah every night. I am called Esha after the last rakaat. Esha means alive I am told. I am alive. I am life. Then misery comes bearing gifts, walks me home. Fajr waits with longing for my attendance. I am an absent lover in it’s bed again. I am just a name without meaning.

205
29
11 days ago
// A night bled and died in my arms.//

// A night bled and died in my arms.//

189
13
24 days ago
//My faith was a stillborn child.//

//My faith was a stillborn child.//

193
33
a month ago
//A prayer for barren words.//

I think of all the things that 
my shoulders bear.
I think of all the things they write 
Left and right.
Are they the same as the ones 
my qalam(pen) compose--
Are they leftovers of zakhm (wound),
undiscovered language of your lips,
creases of your skin and
sharpness of your merciless tongue?

I try to forget you
one word at a time
I leave them beside lost shores
and I pray them Inna lillah
and let death swallow
it's remnants with rivers of holy water
pouring over old imprints 
of your soft limbs
lingering on my cheeks.

I am a musafir without a manzil.
I walk towards my masjid
and my right shoulder record
my bravery and 
the heaviness in my ruku'.
My heart pumps too many stones
each weighing equal to thousand zikr.
Now I have concrete for blood,
warzones for body 
And qabristans (cemetery) for home.

Music: Of Beauty & Odd - Dhafer Youssef

//A prayer for barren words.// I think of all the things that my shoulders bear. I think of all the things they write Left and right. Are they the same as the ones my qalam(pen) compose-- Are they leftovers of zakhm (wound), undiscovered language of your lips, creases of your skin and sharpness of your merciless tongue? I try to forget you one word at a time I leave them beside lost shores and I pray them Inna lillah and let death swallow it's remnants with rivers of holy water pouring over old imprints of your soft limbs lingering on my cheeks. I am a musafir without a manzil. I walk towards my masjid and my right shoulder record my bravery and the heaviness in my ruku'. My heart pumps too many stones each weighing equal to thousand zikr. Now I have concrete for blood, warzones for body And qabristans (cemetery) for home. Music: Of Beauty & Odd - Dhafer Youssef

149
17
a month ago
How long has it been since I 
rested my cheeks upon warm sleeves.
I have not been touched enough
like the rain caresses a window pane,
as a mother would it's sick child,
as a friend would another his half heart
or a lover would their beloved.

Am I not one to ask for it?
Have I sinned too many times 
or have I not cooked, cleaned and danced 
to thee, whims of broken dreams.
Have I not obeyed my father enough 
to ask for love, I do not know so I seek.

All five senses hoard subtle memories
I do not want to forget it's itching.
Touch me and I shall live in your bravery
If I do not deserve this,
tell me what shall i do of tonight
to repent to the sins that 
made me unworthy of affection.

I cannot write about grief-ridden remembrance.
Grief is not mine to keep, I'm told
How do I make it stay?
I try and bribe it with wilted flowers,
ashes of half burnt letters,
greyest pieces of loneliness,
the scars I mothered thus far
and the bedded rust of an old kiss.

The country below my shell have dried drought
without man nor woman to rain on my earth.
It's pores have digged too deep a well
to find memoires of skin to skin
And grew dark leafless trees as gravestones.

Music: Ylang Ylang - FKJ

How long has it been since I rested my cheeks upon warm sleeves. I have not been touched enough like the rain caresses a window pane, as a mother would it's sick child, as a friend would another his half heart or a lover would their beloved. Am I not one to ask for it? Have I sinned too many times or have I not cooked, cleaned and danced to thee, whims of broken dreams. Have I not obeyed my father enough to ask for love, I do not know so I seek. All five senses hoard subtle memories I do not want to forget it's itching. Touch me and I shall live in your bravery If I do not deserve this, tell me what shall i do of tonight to repent to the sins that made me unworthy of affection. I cannot write about grief-ridden remembrance. Grief is not mine to keep, I'm told How do I make it stay? I try and bribe it with wilted flowers, ashes of half burnt letters, greyest pieces of loneliness, the scars I mothered thus far and the bedded rust of an old kiss. The country below my shell have dried drought without man nor woman to rain on my earth. It's pores have digged too deep a well to find memoires of skin to skin And grew dark leafless trees as gravestones. Music: Ylang Ylang - FKJ

127
9
a month ago
And Absence is a road
I yearn for idleness to come
in a chariot with its groom;
Sleep. As golden as they appear
treasuring each weary noon.
I yearn for my mother's womb
to stay there and rid the world
one stagnant daughter and a polluted sister
and dissipate boulders of biles 
lodged in nooks my throat.
My days gathered, counted to where
my blood turns violet and cold
where Jasmine's and Mehendi grows
relentless in the joy of my stillness
where my grave wouldn't be a shrine
between poetry and disappointment
but a Firdous lost in the ruins of my war.
I am quiet and my words talk death
when grief finds this body dire 
I shall stop and admire
but for now, I am a resting place
and absence is a road
vacant of its skin, shrubs and poles
none points directions
a destination takes the shape of horizon
visible to blind eyes 
untouched by mankind.
I am familiar with the steps I take
my foot knows this land like 
the unlit corners of its home
I have walked, ran and towed 
Love's accomplice; Hope.
many a times abandoned, as now. 
I'll walk this road again soon.
for now I am a resting place--

And Absence is a road.

And Absence is a road I yearn for idleness to come in a chariot with its groom; Sleep. As golden as they appear treasuring each weary noon. I yearn for my mother's womb to stay there and rid the world one stagnant daughter and a polluted sister and dissipate boulders of biles lodged in nooks my throat. My days gathered, counted to where my blood turns violet and cold where Jasmine's and Mehendi grows relentless in the joy of my stillness where my grave wouldn't be a shrine between poetry and disappointment but a Firdous lost in the ruins of my war. I am quiet and my words talk death when grief finds this body dire I shall stop and admire but for now, I am a resting place and absence is a road vacant of its skin, shrubs and poles none points directions a destination takes the shape of horizon visible to blind eyes untouched by mankind. I am familiar with the steps I take my foot knows this land like the unlit corners of its home I have walked, ran and towed Love's accomplice; Hope. many a times abandoned, as now. I'll walk this road again soon. for now I am a resting place-- And Absence is a road.

152
6
a month ago
//weighing a girl, a woman and a mother.//

Everyday when sun hides behind trees
A girl-- rides past my house
I look at her through the windows of my room.
She goes around again and  again 
until she gets tired.
She does too many things at once.
bark back at the dog following her,
greet salam to the strangers walking by
stop to smell the yellow flower
and I wonder what scent it bears for her? 
As she pushes on her pedals
her head sways back and forth 
as if a song stuck inside her head.
She completes half another lap,
abandon her smile on the ground and goes home. 

I drink my sulaimani and 
do not wash my cup for a day. 
I am a woman--
I do not know how to cook food 
nor dream about husbands and weddings
I have not smelled enough flowers 
or held enough lovers on my breasts.
I am half-man half-woman, they mocked.
My god does not love me, I am told
because I lighted cigarettes
Harami, I was called.
My sujoods were incomplete
I was branded khafir to my Lord. 
My worth is the dirty cups stacked in my room,
the outlawed ink under my bra line and
the hairs that crawled out my underwear.

Every single day for twenty three years
A mother-- who runs around the house
morning, evening and night
doing too many things at once.
checking if everyone ate enough,
making gharam chai four times a day,
carrying dirty plates in both hands 
and naked regret among putrid stench of fish,
soaking khajoor every night
to feed health into her husband,
cleaning every dusty furniture 
so that her daughter doesn't sneeze too much
at night and wake the sleeping man.
I wonder when was the last time 
she stopped and listened to her favourite ghazal,
the last time Ammi smelled the flowers in her gulshan,
the last time she looked at her daughter and caressed the dust settling 
at the sickness of her pale heart,
the last time she weighed her own dil 
for more than one fertile womb, 
six cents of land and ten sovereign gold.

Music: First Meeting - Charbel Rouhana & The Beirut Oriental Ensemble

//weighing a girl, a woman and a mother.// Everyday when sun hides behind trees A girl-- rides past my house I look at her through the windows of my room. She goes around again and again until she gets tired. She does too many things at once. bark back at the dog following her, greet salam to the strangers walking by stop to smell the yellow flower and I wonder what scent it bears for her? As she pushes on her pedals her head sways back and forth as if a song stuck inside her head. She completes half another lap, abandon her smile on the ground and goes home. I drink my sulaimani and do not wash my cup for a day. I am a woman-- I do not know how to cook food nor dream about husbands and weddings I have not smelled enough flowers or held enough lovers on my breasts. I am half-man half-woman, they mocked. My god does not love me, I am told because I lighted cigarettes Harami, I was called. My sujoods were incomplete I was branded khafir to my Lord. My worth is the dirty cups stacked in my room, the outlawed ink under my bra line and the hairs that crawled out my underwear. Every single day for twenty three years A mother-- who runs around the house morning, evening and night doing too many things at once. checking if everyone ate enough, making gharam chai four times a day, carrying dirty plates in both hands and naked regret among putrid stench of fish, soaking khajoor every night to feed health into her husband, cleaning every dusty furniture so that her daughter doesn't sneeze too much at night and wake the sleeping man. I wonder when was the last time she stopped and listened to her favourite ghazal, the last time Ammi smelled the flowers in her gulshan, the last time she looked at her daughter and caressed the dust settling at the sickness of her pale heart, the last time she weighed her own dil for more than one fertile womb, six cents of land and ten sovereign gold. Music: First Meeting - Charbel Rouhana & The Beirut Oriental Ensemble

213
27
a month ago
Annihilation of oneself, destruction thyself, a matter of oblivion.

music: Sur le fil- Yann Tiersen (piano)

Annihilation of oneself, destruction thyself, a matter of oblivion. music: Sur le fil- Yann Tiersen (piano)

209
41
2 months ago
കടലാസുകളിൽ അഭയം പ്രാപിച്ചവരെ കണ്ടിട്ടുണ്ടോ? 
പേനയുടെ തുമ്പിൽ ശ്വാസം പിടിച്ചു വെച്ചവരേയോ? 
വിരൽ തുമ്പിൽ കടലോളം സ്നേഹം കൊണ്ട് എവിടെയും തൊടാൻ കഴിയാതെ പോയവരെ? 
വേദനയുടെ തൂക്കം അളക്കുന്നവരെ? 
ഗസലുകളിൽ ഒരു പ്രണയവും മൂന്ന് വിരഹവും ഒരു ഗുൽമോഹറും നട്ടവരെ? 
സുജൂദുകളിൽ കലയും കവിതയും ഉരുക്കിയെടുത്തവരാണ് നാം. 
മുസല്ലകൾക്ക് നാവുണ്ടായിരുന്നെങ്കിൽ പാതി വിരിഞ്ഞ കഥകൾ പറഞ്ഞു അവർ കരയും. കണ്ണീരിനു തലോടി തരാട്ടും.
ഇഷ്‌കിന് കാവൽ നിൽക്കാൻ വിധിക്കപ്പെട്ടവർ. എന്റെയും നിന്റെയും വാതിൽക്കൽ ആരുണ്ട്? 
ഇന്ഷാ അല്ലാഹുകൾകിടയിൽ ഒരു ആയുസ്സും നൂറു സ്വപ്നങ്ങളും ഖബറടക്കിയവർ. അവ വളമായി ഖബറിന്മേൽ മൈലാഞ്ചി ചെടികൾ വളർന്നു പന്തലിച്ചു. 
പൊക്കിളിനു അരികിലെ രോമങ്ങൾക്കിടയിൽ ചുംബനങ്ങൾക്ക് ഓർമ്മകുറിപ്പ്‌ എഴുതിയവർ. ഒരിക്കൽ അവിടം സൂര്യകാന്തി പൂത്തിടും, മിർസാ ഗാലിബിന്റെ കവിതകൾ വായിച്ച് നാം വിശ്രമിക്കും. 
മൗനത്തിന്റെ ഭാഷയിൽ വാചാലമായവർക്കിടയിൽ ഒരു തുണ്ട് കടലാസും മേൽവിലാസത്തിന്റേയും ദൂരമേയുള്ളൂ. 
ഒരിക്കൽ ഈ ശൂന്യത എന്നിൽ തലാക്ക്‌ മോഴിയുന്ന അന്ന് ഞാൻ നിനക്കൊരു തസ്ബീഹ് സമ്മാനിക്കും.
യാതനകളുടെ ക്ഷണിക്കാത്ത വരവിന് തക്ബീർ ചൊല്ലി വരവേൽക്കാൻ. 

-നൂർ.

കടലാസുകളിൽ അഭയം പ്രാപിച്ചവരെ കണ്ടിട്ടുണ്ടോ? പേനയുടെ തുമ്പിൽ ശ്വാസം പിടിച്ചു വെച്ചവരേയോ? വിരൽ തുമ്പിൽ കടലോളം സ്നേഹം കൊണ്ട് എവിടെയും തൊടാൻ കഴിയാതെ പോയവരെ? വേദനയുടെ തൂക്കം അളക്കുന്നവരെ? ഗസലുകളിൽ ഒരു പ്രണയവും മൂന്ന് വിരഹവും ഒരു ഗുൽമോഹറും നട്ടവരെ? സുജൂദുകളിൽ കലയും കവിതയും ഉരുക്കിയെടുത്തവരാണ് നാം. മുസല്ലകൾക്ക് നാവുണ്ടായിരുന്നെങ്കിൽ പാതി വിരിഞ്ഞ കഥകൾ പറഞ്ഞു അവർ കരയും. കണ്ണീരിനു തലോടി തരാട്ടും. ഇഷ്‌കിന് കാവൽ നിൽക്കാൻ വിധിക്കപ്പെട്ടവർ. എന്റെയും നിന്റെയും വാതിൽക്കൽ ആരുണ്ട്? ഇന്ഷാ അല്ലാഹുകൾകിടയിൽ ഒരു ആയുസ്സും നൂറു സ്വപ്നങ്ങളും ഖബറടക്കിയവർ. അവ വളമായി ഖബറിന്മേൽ മൈലാഞ്ചി ചെടികൾ വളർന്നു പന്തലിച്ചു. പൊക്കിളിനു അരികിലെ രോമങ്ങൾക്കിടയിൽ ചുംബനങ്ങൾക്ക് ഓർമ്മകുറിപ്പ്‌ എഴുതിയവർ. ഒരിക്കൽ അവിടം സൂര്യകാന്തി പൂത്തിടും, മിർസാ ഗാലിബിന്റെ കവിതകൾ വായിച്ച് നാം വിശ്രമിക്കും. മൗനത്തിന്റെ ഭാഷയിൽ വാചാലമായവർക്കിടയിൽ ഒരു തുണ്ട് കടലാസും മേൽവിലാസത്തിന്റേയും ദൂരമേയുള്ളൂ. ഒരിക്കൽ ഈ ശൂന്യത എന്നിൽ തലാക്ക്‌ മോഴിയുന്ന അന്ന് ഞാൻ നിനക്കൊരു തസ്ബീഹ് സമ്മാനിക്കും. യാതനകളുടെ ക്ഷണിക്കാത്ത വരവിന് തക്ബീർ ചൊല്ലി വരവേൽക്കാൻ. -നൂർ.

253
25
2 months ago
ഇന്ന് ഇവിടം ശാന്തമാണ്. ഒരു ചെറിയ തണുപ്പല്ലാതെ മറ്റൊന്നും എന്നെ അലട്ടുന്നില്ല. മരവിപ്പിലേകുള്ള ദൂരം നിൽക്കുന്നിടത്ത് നിന്ന് അധികമില്ല എന്നറിയാം. അതുകൊണ്ട് അല്ലാത്ത ദിവസങ്ങളിലെ സംഗതികൾ ഒന്ന് കുറിച്ചിടുന്നുണ്ട്.

1. മുറിയിലെ ജനലുകൾ തുറന്നിടും. അല്ലെങ്കിൽ ശ്വാസം മുട്ടുന്ന പോലെ തോന്നും. മേലാസകലം കൊതു കടിച്ച പാടുകളുണ്ട്. ചിലതൊക്കെ ചോര തുപ്പാൻ ഒരുങ്ങി നിൽക്കുന്ന പോലെയാണ് കാണാൻ. മനസ്സിനെ അനുകരിക്കുന്നതായിരിക്കാം.

2. തലയ്ക്ക് ഒരു ചൂടാണ് എപ്പോഴും. തലവേദനകൾക്കിടയിലെ ഇടവേളകൾ കുറഞ്ഞിരിക്കുന്നു. ചിന്തകൾക്ക് ധൈര്യം സ്വല്പം കൂടുകയും. വിഷമിപ്പിക്കാൻ മടിക്കുന്നില്ല.

3. വിരലുകൾക്കിടയിൽ എവിടെയോ കുടുങ്ങി കിടക്കുന്ന പ്രണയങ്ങൾക്ക് ഒരു കുടം വെള്ളം തെളിക്കും. എന്നെങ്കിലും പൂക്കുമ്പോൾ ഒന്ന് ചിരിക്കാൻ വേണ്ടി. 

4. നെറ്റിയിലെ ചുറുൾമുടികൾ നേരെയാക്കാനുളള ശ്രമങ്ങൾ, തൊലിമുകളിലെ പിഴവുകൾ മായ്ക്കാനുളള വെപ്രാളം. നിനക്ക് ഇഷ്ടമുള്ളതൊന്നും തന്നെ ഇന്ന് ഞാൻ പ്രിയപെടുന്നില്ല.

5. സിഗററ്റ് കുറ്റികൾ എരീച്ചു കളഞ്ഞ യാദനകൾക്ക് ഒരു മെഴുകുതിരിയും ഫരീദ ഖാനൂമിന്റേ ഗസലും സമ്മാനിക്കും.

6. ദേഷ്യവും വേർപിരിവും തമ്മിലുള്ള യുദ്ധകാലം ഒതുങ്ങാനുള്ള നാളുകളുടെ കണക്കെടുപ്പ്. 

7. ഉമ്മാടെ വാക്കുകളിൽ അഭിമാനത്തിന്റെ അംശം കണ്ടെത്തുന്ന ദിവസത്തിന് വേണ്ടിയുള്ള കാത്തിരിപ്പ്.

Photo: @_safad._

ഇന്ന് ഇവിടം ശാന്തമാണ്. ഒരു ചെറിയ തണുപ്പല്ലാതെ മറ്റൊന്നും എന്നെ അലട്ടുന്നില്ല. മരവിപ്പിലേകുള്ള ദൂരം നിൽക്കുന്നിടത്ത് നിന്ന് അധികമില്ല എന്നറിയാം. അതുകൊണ്ട് അല്ലാത്ത ദിവസങ്ങളിലെ സംഗതികൾ ഒന്ന് കുറിച്ചിടുന്നുണ്ട്. 1. മുറിയിലെ ജനലുകൾ തുറന്നിടും. അല്ലെങ്കിൽ ശ്വാസം മുട്ടുന്ന പോലെ തോന്നും. മേലാസകലം കൊതു കടിച്ച പാടുകളുണ്ട്. ചിലതൊക്കെ ചോര തുപ്പാൻ ഒരുങ്ങി നിൽക്കുന്ന പോലെയാണ് കാണാൻ. മനസ്സിനെ അനുകരിക്കുന്നതായിരിക്കാം. 2. തലയ്ക്ക് ഒരു ചൂടാണ് എപ്പോഴും. തലവേദനകൾക്കിടയിലെ ഇടവേളകൾ കുറഞ്ഞിരിക്കുന്നു. ചിന്തകൾക്ക് ധൈര്യം സ്വല്പം കൂടുകയും. വിഷമിപ്പിക്കാൻ മടിക്കുന്നില്ല. 3. വിരലുകൾക്കിടയിൽ എവിടെയോ കുടുങ്ങി കിടക്കുന്ന പ്രണയങ്ങൾക്ക് ഒരു കുടം വെള്ളം തെളിക്കും. എന്നെങ്കിലും പൂക്കുമ്പോൾ ഒന്ന് ചിരിക്കാൻ വേണ്ടി. 4. നെറ്റിയിലെ ചുറുൾമുടികൾ നേരെയാക്കാനുളള ശ്രമങ്ങൾ, തൊലിമുകളിലെ പിഴവുകൾ മായ്ക്കാനുളള വെപ്രാളം. നിനക്ക് ഇഷ്ടമുള്ളതൊന്നും തന്നെ ഇന്ന് ഞാൻ പ്രിയപെടുന്നില്ല. 5. സിഗററ്റ് കുറ്റികൾ എരീച്ചു കളഞ്ഞ യാദനകൾക്ക് ഒരു മെഴുകുതിരിയും ഫരീദ ഖാനൂമിന്റേ ഗസലും സമ്മാനിക്കും. 6. ദേഷ്യവും വേർപിരിവും തമ്മിലുള്ള യുദ്ധകാലം ഒതുങ്ങാനുള്ള നാളുകളുടെ കണക്കെടുപ്പ്. 7. ഉമ്മാടെ വാക്കുകളിൽ അഭിമാനത്തിന്റെ അംശം കണ്ടെത്തുന്ന ദിവസത്തിന് വേണ്ടിയുള്ള കാത്തിരിപ്പ്. Photo: @_safad._

193
17
2 months ago
// The girl who wore Kashmir on her skin//

Miriam had caramel skin that glistened. 
She wore a tasbeeh (prayer beads) around her neck.
She said it protected her like a charm
as if she was constantly in combat.
When a girl from the mainland grazed 
her hands from temple to bare chest 
until she reached for her hands--
rough and marked, as if the battle of badr
took place on the insides of her palms,
like Agha's poems of Kashmir
politically raging wars, defending
the cold beauty of his beloved land.
The girl could see on Miriam's freckled
textured skin,
the roads that took them to Gulmarg 
and the Dal Lake where she drinks 
to grow gulshans (gardens) behind her ears. 
Away from the land of settlements
who call names at eachother 
who mistakes greedy patriots
who lynches justice on blind dusks,
Miriam was a never-never land
that streched parallel to the shores 
of mainland; untouched.
The girl could see the wars that took place 
behind her porcelain absaar (eyes)
the hundreds of lines crossing her palms
a militant front defending her kins
the roughness of her curves 
collected around the waists of her homeland
speaks of her unparalleled mountains
and depth of her springs that flowed 
atop her weary eyes. 
If only Miriam touched layla back, 
she would know ishtiaq (longing) 
spread by the illness of her uljan (agony).
Fil-haal, Layla sits in her study writing letters 
and letters to her khwahish (dreams)
verily about Miriam, who wears 
the bedlam of Kashmir on her skin.

// The girl who wore Kashmir on her skin// Miriam had caramel skin that glistened. She wore a tasbeeh (prayer beads) around her neck. She said it protected her like a charm as if she was constantly in combat. When a girl from the mainland grazed her hands from temple to bare chest until she reached for her hands-- rough and marked, as if the battle of badr took place on the insides of her palms, like Agha's poems of Kashmir politically raging wars, defending the cold beauty of his beloved land. The girl could see on Miriam's freckled textured skin, the roads that took them to Gulmarg and the Dal Lake where she drinks to grow gulshans (gardens) behind her ears. Away from the land of settlements who call names at eachother who mistakes greedy patriots who lynches justice on blind dusks, Miriam was a never-never land that streched parallel to the shores of mainland; untouched. The girl could see the wars that took place behind her porcelain absaar (eyes) the hundreds of lines crossing her palms a militant front defending her kins the roughness of her curves collected around the waists of her homeland speaks of her unparalleled mountains and depth of her springs that flowed atop her weary eyes. If only Miriam touched layla back, she would know ishtiaq (longing) spread by the illness of her uljan (agony). Fil-haal, Layla sits in her study writing letters and letters to her khwahish (dreams) verily about Miriam, who wears the bedlam of Kashmir on her skin.

307
27
2 months ago