Author’s Note:
The Pahalgam tragedy has touched us all, in different ways. The unnecessary, meaningless act of terrorism incited a variety of feelings in me. Some I expressed as rants in obscure WhatsApp groups but those did not fully soothe the avalanche of feelings I was experiencing. So I did something uncharacteristic of me, try and capture the fleeting thoughts in words, strung them together, to create what turned out to be poems. I am not a poet, not by far. Still, I am taking the chance to share my thoughts through a triptych—Pahalgam.
The Wait Between
Life is the wait.
Not the beginning, not the end—
just the space between
birth and the last breath
where we try
to mean something.
We say we’re living,
but most days
we’re just passing time.
Scrolling.
Rushing.
Forgetting.
We know how it ends—
we’re not naive—
but still,
we fill the space
with anger we never unpack,
with hunger we name ambition,
with jealousy that hides in compliments,
with silence that weighs more than words.
We’re all headed to the same place.
Different routes.
Same exit sign.
And breath—
that’s the real currency, isn’t it?
Not money,
not likes.
Breaths.
Moments.
Tiny, blinking lights
on a timeline that no one else sees.
My moments,
mine alone.
A picture no one else can quite see.
I’m still arranging it—
pixel by pixel,
memory by memory.
Is it selfish
to add colour to these moments?
To want joy with substance,
laughter that lingers,
you—
woven into the canvas?
The past is already gone.
The last breath might come from anywhere —
even a madman’s bullet.
And I’m tired.
Tired of hoping the thread
that holds all these moments together
doesn’t snap before I’m done.
I just don’t want to look back,
with that final exhale,
and realize
I didn’t use the right colours
when I painted
what we had.