Of Insha, Ghalib and Farhan…

Three individuals. One generation

Syeda Afshana
Srinagar, Publish Date: Jan 13 2018 11:15PM | Updated Date: Jan 13 2018 11:15PM
Of Insha, Ghalib and Farhan…File Photo

Dreams are colorless. All colors are similar. Post 2016, my sense of colors has changed. I see them as trappings of choice. For I have carved out an interlude for myself, in which dreams have unraveled to me a different meaning of self-discovery and self-discipline. That is why, my dreams are no more color specific. I am seeing them through a blurred prism. My ‘pelleted’ eyes have started exploring a different realm. Now I dream in colorless milieu. My imagination is immaculate and inadequate as well. However, I am content over the results. True, I never wanted this. I also never expected it. But then, it ought to be a fresh start. A new road. I am embarking upon. Being a young girl and permanently sightless, there are some straight questions to be uncovered and certain stark answers to be embraced. I will trudge along, on and on…. with blind eyes but open mind. To find out my part of the chronicle. My lament and life will strive hard to be far profounder than ever. Even so, Kashmir will continue to rest in my colorless dreams. I will carry it along. For its sardonic story will bind me to my suffering and the somber lessons therein. So long as the unfinished trial of injustice done to me lingers, I will keep dreaming and Kashmir will keep gasping…. Says Insha.


Dreams are real. Dreams are powerful. Dreams give birth to change. My dream is the change. It is me. My passion. My patience. My dreams cannot be executed. The macabre memory of my childhood didn’t deter me from dreaming. I am toiling tough, investing my time and determination in my dreams. I have found a purpose to pursue and wake up to realize my dreams. I think not all dreams can turn out as ‘distortions’ that are shaped by naive beliefs and hopes. The most unsettling thing about the seeming simplicity of dreams is that they might look like quite prosaic. But actually, in their simplicity lies their power. That is why I too harbor simple dreams. I am conscious of the extremely sensitive responsibility that will chip in, as my dreams are translated into reality. I won’t like my dreams to be projected as an imaginative departure from my history, bearing political ramifications. My dreams are innocently apolitical. My lonely widowed mother carries the countenance of my dreams. Her torment and tears in silence water them. Of course, her ordeal is an inseparable and intense element of forsaken humanitarian part of Kashmir narrative. Through my dreams, I as son of the soil, will struggle to bring solace to her and honor her sacrifices beyond the victimhood tag.…Says Ghalib.   


Dreams are deadly. Dreams draw dilemma. Dreams make us fearless. The conviction fortifies them. They slip in amidst all sadness. That is why I am a daring dreamer. I believe and I dream. Nothing inhibits my inspiration. My dreams are unfettered. They call me a ‘model student’. I scored grade of 9.6 out of 10 in my high school exams. But my dreams could not stop me from abandoning the comforts of my home as well as the promises of a bright career. I left it all. Behind. Far, faraway. My dreams chase me to challenging life. I risk my every breath to see my dream happening. I know it is only my cessation that garners the culmination of my dreams. Looking for my soul to free my conscience, I persist to pursue the heavenly vision. I cease so that I can live. Departure. Yes, I depart to realize my dreams in mystical dominion beyond the bondages of time and space. And in the process, I inflict yet another bleeding wound on the battered corpse of Kashmir. I leave behind screams, sobs and scars. A trail of melancholic memory for my beloved ones to treasure tenderly, while missing me mutely….Says Farhan.


Bottomline: One lost her Vision. Another lost his Visionary. And other his Verve. Three dreamers. One dirge. Three characters. One conflict. Three tales. One tragedy. Three individuals. One generation. Three mono-narratives. One meta-narrative. Three wounds. One woe. Kashmir is ironically throwing up a maze of complexities and contradictions in which its generations are getting lost. Bred under the shade of sham politics, superficial discourses and snug indifference to everything occurring around, the histrionics of confounding confusions is divulging its damned designs. Sadly. Slowly. But. Surely. 


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