Written By M.I.Mazhar
I saw fresh corn husks at the vegetable shop and stopped.
A well familiar scene appeared in the wilderness of the mind and made me blossom for a while.
In my homeland, thousands of miles away, the days before the corn harvest are near.
Blinks in my eyes a never-fading image of when the husks were still half-raw and half-ripe.
How did mother’s hand rest on the one that was the juiciest among them?
How did she know which one was as bright as the milk-white teeth of her son?
Which one was as soft as the soft pink face of her daughter?
She would only half peel the one then let us feel the joy of peeling the rest.
In the unfolding of life, every Pahari mother was a symbol of resilience and courage just like a mountain.
Yet, she would touch a corn plant with the gentlest hand.
Not just to fulfill the innocent request of a little one.
But to care for and protect the corn which was not yet ready to harvest.
Her fingers would mechanically collide with the one that met the criteria.
A question arises in the mind.
May it be seen in my native place even today?
The heart cries to witness, the visit to the homeland last year belies any such image.
Let my homeland live in my dreams.
Insight on Kashmir 