Kashmiri blood isn’t cheap

As I write this, I hear the repeated chants of “We want freedom!” and “Hum kya chahte-Azadi” all around me. I look outside to see a throng of people, young and old, marching on the road. I hear the wailing sirens of police gypsies as they hurry to suppress the growing sea of protesters. Inevitably, tear gas canisters will be discharged. People will get hurt, some may even lose their lives. This vicious cycle will continue.
When I observe these security personnel, I feel a strange sense of déjà vu. I’ve seen this before. I feel a growing sense of anguish, a feeling of helplessness. My blood boils over and I see red. Common sense be damned, I want to fight. I want to make them realise that Kashmiri blood isn’t cheap and inferior. I want to inflict pain on them, make them regret the day they were born. The air is filled with the steady sound of bullets. They claim that they fire into the air. Yet, people die of bullet wounds to the head. Sharpshooters indeed. 
Slowly, the adrenalin rush begins to fade. My shoulders slump in defeat and I begin to reason with myself. Is this our glorious path towards independence? Stone pelting our way to freedom? Kill or be killed? Every other day, a mother weeps over her lost son, and yet we slink our way back to our everyday lives? Cry ourselves hoarse one day and vote with our hearts the next? Despicable double standards.
I don’t know which way is right. But I do know that, together, they are wrong. Two diverging roads never reach the same destination. But maybe they do. In this paradise.

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