sitting beside the old chinar
I search for the voices. The thumping
boots have shot the Bulbul I am told
by a seven year old
whose pheran is still warm.
You must visits us, he insists
seventeen odd people in a shallow dig
marked by a stone, that’s my home.
Uncle Ganie likes blue eyed people
and he knows Abu will find
us all. He promised to come
and see me play after asr prayer;
cricket matches are long at times!
I ask him about the stone.
Not the shale one near the stream
Arshad lives there, not us,
of the size of my fist,
haven’t you seen it before?
A thousand of them, I have.
All in a hurry, silence prevails,
I must go.
The curfew starts at six.
Who knows I would be shot again,