Mauj Kasheer

Two men helped her
into my consulting chamber
‘What is her name?’ I asked.
‘Mother.’
‘From where?’
‘Kashmir.’
Sure she was Mauj Kasheer
attired in a pheron,
long and loose and embroidered,
and a head-gear high,
the Qasaba,
quaint and tottering well nigh.
‘What ails thee, mother?’ I asked.
‘The pangs of separation, my son.
You left us behind,
to be abused, debased and undone,
and for my old eyes to witness
the loot and plunder,
blood, gore and murder.’
She raised her quivering fingers
frosted with the chill of countless winters
and clasped my hand as if in pincers.
‘Eight years is a long time
and I can wait no more;
I came to this faraway clime
to discharge the debt
of motherhood,’
and she raised her Qasaba
and tossed it at my feet,
‘Here, I beseech you,
come back to your mother
pray do.’
Mauj Kasheer has come
to her exiled son,
how long can I wait
to return?

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