Letter To Kashmir

Dear Kashmir,

                                   The morning rays of the sun are kissing the peaks of the snow-capped mountains right before my eyes. Lying in your lap, the weariness of the long bike journey just evaporates into thin air as I visualise the different hues being added to the sky. As the cold misty morning air blows over my tanned face, I could feel your fingers caressing my hair. The warmth from the fireplace envelops me and I feel your lips on my forehead, warm and comforting. I hear your voice in the Sufi music filling the air around, in the clattering of the bangles of the Kashmiri women and in the whistling of the chill air in my ears.

                                   When I run my fingers through the snow, crystal white and glowing, I feel your cold skin brushing against mine. I see your smile on the lips of the children making snowmen, on the face of the roadside vendor selling apples and on those tourists waving at me from the shikharas.

                                 

  At twilight, while walking through the pine forest with darkness and silence enveloping me, I feel your hand against mine and your very presence in the air I breathe. At night, while lying in the bed with the Sufi music flowing into the room through the window, I think about the hands which crafted you with perfection and serene beauty. While growing up, I was taught that ethereal beauty does not exist. But the quest for it brought me to you.

                                   Before I leave, as I turn back, I could see those unhealed bruises and pellet wounds throughout your body which are concealed by your long white shroud. The teardrop glistening at the corner of your eyes melts my heart. The sight will haunt me for days to come.