Independent India is still shy of 70 years of age, but the last generation to see its birth is well on its way to pages of history. Many among them celebrated with a light heart, but many encountered violence, homelessness, and immense sorrow as independence split the sub-continent, homes, and hearts. While the joy and pride of Independence has stayed and been passed on to following generations, the hurt and tears of Partition are largely fading.
I can only thank God that my family did not face the tragedy, and wonder how it would have been for those millions who had to.
The rivers of blood have dried up,
The last of tears are leaving.
The world is immune; blinded:
Are we the last ones grieving?
Tales of untold horror told,
Lie fading on yellowed leaves.
The sighs they captured, bolted:
Have all those sighs stopped heaving?
The angst of minds skinned, tortured,
Of childhoods lost and stolen
Now looks for peace and closure;
Has prayer stopped conceiving?
Burnt fields still haunt broken homes
That wither into twilight.
Bright lamps then light their dimples;
Has darkness been deceiving?
Sympathies have been spoken;
Our chests flaunt stars and medals.
Are we the last to wonder
Just what are we achieving?
– April 2016