hoshiarpur turns pink at sunset the setting sun casts a tint on nameless faces, nameless roads, nameless graves. the setting sun sets fire to the fields the smoke, making its way to the other side, abandoned havelis house the bloodstains from partition, a broken memory weaved with pain, anger and loss. the smoke reaches the border crop dust mixed with blood and memory, greeting it’s old inhabitants, carrying the comfort of home, and the loneliness of refuge. the barren fields of mehina sing for their return the flowers in jatpur and chabbewal demand to see the graves, the weeds recite Habib’s poetry, cemeteries demand a homecoming. treasure chests house a pile of bones crop dust mixed with blood and memory.
hoshiarpur mourns punjab, hoshiarpur celebrates Durga, as a Sialkot mistress plays shatranj outside the radio station while a rusting blade hangs from her waist, as the sun drowns in the arms of the universe and the stars comfort the moon.
Jaishree Kumar is a poet, a failed musician and a student journalist. She’s usually found at protests, curled up in between the barricades.