A.V

Log humse puchte hai, Apko kabhi ishk hua hai? Main kehta hoon, Hum ishk, mahobat, ulfat, yai sab nahi karte hai. Hum pream karte hai, Wo nahi jiska rang gulab sa surkh laal ho, Ya jismein ho dard, par muskaan ka taal ho, Par wo jiska rang badalo sa safeed ho, Wo jo sardiyo mai ek garam razaai sa ho. Humara pream kisi ko bandhna nahi chahata, Kisi ko apna banane ki ichcha nahi rakhta. Wo pream jismein sneha, anuragh, aur vatsalya saath ho, Jismein phoolon ki pankhadiyon si komalta ho, Sardiyo ke sure ka santosh ho, Thodi shaam ke raagho si aalass ho, Chhote baccho si shaitaniyaan ho. Hum pream karte hai, Wo hai na, Jo humare Kanhaiya, Radha Rani se karte hai. Bilkul wahi wala. Toh, Aap batayein, aap kya karte hai? Ishk, mahobat, ulfat? Ya phir pream? A.V

The pyre is ready. The sky is overcast. The body lies on top. Two bullet wounds. A boy, eight years old, steps forward. His hands shake around the torch. He lights his father’s body. He saw him die. Shot in front of his eyes. His mother collapses. The family gathers what remains of themselves. The ritual ends. We walk back through fields of rice, surrounded by green. Clouds break open, thunder claps. Rain falls heavy and slow just as the flashback hits the mind. Each drop presses the earth closer to our feet. The sky cries into my hair, down my cheeks, into my clothes. People scramble to hide their phones, but I stand still, letting the water have me. Is this a Kairos? It feels like one, with the rain striking at such a moment. I am eighteen, a callow being, still learning what moments matter. We reach his home. Everyone sits solemnly in unison, in silence as rain pours. It soaks us completely, until the sorrow thins only slightly, but enough to stand again. We all rise a m...