Kashmir

• Arya Banerjee, Grade 11, Melbourne High School
• Short Story
• 2022

Excellence Award in the 'Unleashed 2022' competition

Monsoon – mute, mundane, mellow. The tapestry of Kashmir awakens, as you stroll the heartbeats and emotions. It is a delicate reminder, this humble valley, that poetry need not the tree-torn pages or stained words of ink. For when tattered the beauty lives on. For when tattered the memory lives on.
And as you approach the majesty, you notice the intersection – the bund between heavenly happiness and somber sorrow. For here, the caged bird both yearns yet alienates the gift of flight. War was but a day ago, though nature retains her softness. How funny, you think, that in this land justice does not reign.
You pause at the foot of a river, a divine body nurturing the stained lotuses. For blood flows like water here, humanity a fantasy fathomed of bullets. Notice the tranquil gushes of the nearby streams. The aroma of pine trees. The fields of saffron. They were borne by fallen martyrs – the persecuted boys and girls. Lost in history. Forgotten souls of tyranny.
But their moment has passed, for their landscape now breathes the traveler and townsman alike. Sense the mountain’s pulse. Feel the underworld’s expressions personified.
The village people draw your attention. You approach them steadily. Pity them, for every mother you see has lost her child.; every child a home; every home blazed afire. How carelessly, you soon realise, imperial powers vivisected the treasures of this haven, the false fruit foregathered from their losses. It is at the heart of their restlessness – the wicked foreigner. You try not to ensnare them into the same trap.
For they are angels, you will soon realise. Despite not knowing your creed, the little children dash to your feet. They fold their fear into a perfect rose, and gift it to you as an offering. For they speculate you are some heavenly being – a Quetzalcoatl to their Aztec empire. And you foolishly return them the bits of coloured cloth you collected at the embassy. Flags, they called it, not the brainwashing tools they shroud the supposed heroes in.
The women invite you into their quaint cottages; you lured by the scent of mouth-watering curries and grain. Observe the vibrancy of their fashion and food alike – these visions are far more vivid then any others you will see. They ask you to make yourself comfortable in the pagan tongue. You heed their command, and strew yourself on their ancestral rug, seeking to revive the modernity in the traditional weave.
A banana leaf topped with local delicacies catches your attention. You rise up to the flavour of joy. Enjoy the kulchas and rogan josh, the women tell you, enjoy it with a cup of our butter tea. And like a voracious monster you devour it. Quickly. Suddenly. The children giggle. Then laugh. You feel comforted by their innocence. You feel safe in their purity.
A home, at last.
A shot intercepts. Then another. And another.

The house has crumbled to the floor.