Inherited pain from second-hand wounds

I did not inherit any pherans from Kashmir,

Only stories of torn fabric,

Clinging to exhausted bodies,

Folded into trunks that traveled to faraway lands.

I did not inherit any land in Kashmir,

Only stories my elder cousins carried—

Of growing up in ordinary homes of brick and mud,

And their tales of longing and despair.

I did not taste any kehwa in Kashmir.

The dried leaves were pushed into cities,

Their fragrance diluted by polished packaging,

Though each cup was brewed with care.

I did not grow any saffron in Kashmir,

Yet its bloody red trails swirling in kheer

Remain a poignant reminder

Of the tales of our longing and despair.

I did not wear my athur in Kashmir,

The gold jewel pressing against my skin feels cold

Ridden with guilt of deceiving my identity and living far away

Singing tales of longing and despair.

I did not eat monj hakh in Kashmir.

The greens I knew grew only in unfamiliar soil,

Boiled in filtered water—

How could it ever taste the same?

I did not walk the valleys of Kashmir,

Nor hear the rivers speak in hushed tones,

Flowing carefully through memory,

Singing tales of longing and despair.