As the social media in Occupied Kashmir became viral with pictures of a small kid sitting close to his grandfather’s body, Indian Political leaders and RSS trolls started using it as a propaganda against freedom fighters. The family of slain has already indicated that innocent man was killed by Indian Army and CPRF in a staged encounter. Even the traumatized kid narrated in a video that Army killed his grandfather.

We may not be able to know the psychological trauma suffered by this kid, who saw his grandfather being killed in his presence but his sobs and cries are echoing across the globe. We have done some previous poems on Syrian, Palestinian and Indian kids suffering from trauma of conflicts and wars. Inspire by their stories a poem on plight of Kashmiri children and the trauma they suffer on daily basis has been scribbled to highlight the ruthless operations conducted by Indian state machinery against eight million Kashmiri Muslim of Occupied Kashmir.

Kashmir, Tears for Dada

I mourn for dada, sitting on his lifeless torso

My picture on display in the global studio

Agony, anguish, pain and blow

Occupied Kashmir is a tragic show


Tears roll down my cheek

Scared, bludgeoned, I can’t even squeak

Indian soldiers and their stubborn streak

Dada’s blood soaked cloths, my future bleak


I gaze through the hazy mosaic around

Gun fire, sirens and deafening sound

Smell of fresh blood on ground

Dry lips and my tongue confound


Sopore has a blurry mosaic

The system has gone archaic

Blood, dust, noise and smoke stacks

Ghost towns, burnt streets and shacks


Fathers carrying slain bodies of sons in hides

And kids burying their parents besides

Hapless parents, burials of sons denied 

We have become posters for all sides


Life has become frozen in corpses and coffins

Of phosphorus smells and toxins

Valley of human dustbins

A slaughterhouse of Muslims


And there are no seasons in Sopore, just burnt grass

No schools no teachers no class

Life is like walking on broken glass

My picture becomes a trend, alas!


No colors no plays no hobbies

No laughing, no cackles, no stories

Daily specter of graves and dead bodies

No memories in the city of Zombies


My sobs echo in Amman, Tehran and Dhaka

Islamabad, Baku and Ankara

Kuwait, Dubai and Abuja

Kabul, Riyadh and Jakarta

Reluctant to condemn Bharat Mata


I am hushed and scared

Dark shadows of snipers on roof tops prepared

Daily killing of Kashmiris declared

Here humanity is impaired


Sparrows of Sopore are no more

My dada lying bare on gravel floor

Wake up dada and narrate the evening lore

Grandma waits for you on broken door


Dada’s bruised legs are getting cold

Another tragic story told

My tears cross the threshold

He has become breathless behold