Dreams Of A Hopeful Daughter

When I was Six

I was drawn to Kashmir

Because amma said

Our sweetest apples

Were her orchards’.

And so I’d decided

To live there in a wooden house

With an orchard of my own.

 

When I was twelve

I was drawn to Kashmir

Because I dreamt she was beautiful.

After all, snow-capped mountains

Were paradise in the eyes of the ocean’s daughter.

And so I’d decided

To live in a house with painted windows

The mountains watching, curious

Of the alien who’d come home.

 

Now I’m eighteen

I no longer harbor dreams

That was built on beautiful lies.

Because that’s what Kashmir’s beauty was, a lie.

I’d never have the wooden house and orchards

I am not her daughter.

And her snow-capped mountains are now painted red.

 

When I’m twenty-four

Maybe it will stop.

Maybe Kashmir will restore herself

Like mothers do after a long day.

And maybe I’ll be hopeful

Of wooden houses and painted windows,

Of orchards and sweet apples

And seeing those snow-capped mountains.

 

For now, the painted ones will do.