Sheikh Zaraar
Walking down the lanes, they passed through the green lush fields of south Kashmir, where flowers smiled at them, birds sang melodious songs, and the earth welcomed them. The orchards tossed their branches, shedding leaves to kiss the soil where their feet touched the ground. Nature surrendered itself to their chaste beauty and began to rejoice along with them.
But suddenly the songs of birds stopped. Trees dropped their branches in shame and nature bore a gloomy look. Things changed in no time. Poor chirping birds who witnessed the scene turned away their eyes as they cannot bear to see what followed thereafter.
The ground on which they had walked wanted to open up and give them space in its heart. The Rambi Ara Nallah waters gushed in anger, pain. But nature proved helpless as it cannot do anything to save them.
Evil appeared on the scene. Chastity got torn apart. Innocent, pious souls cried, struggled, screamed but no one heard. Their cries fell on deaf ears and the evil forces went on and on. No one heard the shrieks and cries as evil pervaded the whole atmosphere. The stream of Rambi Ara wished it could hold the ripped apart souls in its bosom, but couldn’t.
Nature wept over the deflowering of such beautiful souls.
Justices, ministries, kings all failed the chaste women. As if this wasn’t enough, they (of course the so called justices, ministries and kings) questioned their chastity.
Chastity was blown to smithereens. Flowers of utmost garishness were stomped underneath. Ministries were seen passing a sheepish grin and surroundings mourned for this dastardly act. Kings from their so-called pulpits of glory pronounced, “Why this hue and cry? Whores and chastity are things apart.”
Authorities blew the age-old bugle of suicide and commissions reiterated that it was a pure case of death by drowning. The stream of Rambi Ara wanted to ask them whether it was possible for anyone to get drowned in a shallow stream of 1.5-2 feet. Autopsies revealed fatal injuries on the private parts of chaste women which couldn’t be the handiwork of the innocent and ever-silent stream.
Once passing by the stream, I spitted on its surface waters and it absorbed my blob of spit. I got an impression that the stream in a hushed up wailing voice said that it wished it could have absorbed the wound-stricken bodies of the two chaste women as well, but its waters are shallow.
I could never come to terms with the fact that these two women were torn apart and silenced forever when they could have been the nightingales for their kith and kin. Visiting their grave is no less heart wrenching than seeing their family members shedding tears of pain.
From underneath the innards of their graves still come the voices asking for rescue and help. Lest we forget, remember they were our very own sisters who wanted us to fight for them.
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