That song, again.

I have been listening to this song since I was a child.

My mother never liked this song. So it wasn't played in my house. We didn't know the tune, nor the lyrics.

We didn't like this genre of music.

And suddenly in 1992, the song was playing everywhere.

It played in the middle of the night, and grew louder and louder like a mob was stalking near.

It played and played for nearly 2 months. And started seeping inside my head.

When I wasn't scared, I hoped it would play on so the schools will remained closed.

When the schools re-opened, my teachers asked all of us our opinions on what should be made on a far away land that was sending waves of tremors all across the country.

I said - A school would be good. Like mine. Where all of us play in the tall grass and chase yellow butterflies in rains and blow smoke in the winter winds.

My opinion was published. I read my name, my age with my religion beside it in the newspaper for the first time.

And I heard the same song, as if chanted in crazy murmurs. It sent shivers down my spine.

I started hating this song.

I grew up and the hatred grew.

I went into a phase of denial. The song doesn't exist. It doesn't exist. It must not exist. It doesn't matter.

It died down. Or I had hoped.

Then, suddenly, it infested my ears in 2002.

I started hearing it behind my back. Faint wafts of it. The stink in it. It was old and rotten.

But never did it die. the sound of it.

What do you eat, what do you wear, which is your favorite cricket team, what are your political views on issues. The lyrics changed. But the song was the same.

The song has never stopped playing.

"Hindu - Muslim - Hindu - Muslim - Hindu - Muslim - Hindu - Muslim."

I see Kashmir in my rear-view mirror.

They walk very fast. With their breath wheezing out in a puff of gray smoke. The steps match their purpose. They have somewhere to go. Something to do. With every hurried step, perhaps, they leave the scars behind. Or try to run away

Their hands forever hidden in 'pherans,' much like their wounds. The young boys whiz past on bikes laughing as they stop on the shores of Dal. Thumping backs, punching and chasing each other.

Running away from anger with every smile.

******

They play cricket on the roads to Hazrat bal. The pitch lay across two concrete paths. The high shots seem dangerous to chase. But it isn't dangerous for them. They have seen death in the eyes. With only stones in their hands.

The eyes are sad. Or maybe their color is. Just like the winter. Beautiful and gray. Or maybe the land's quiet grief has entered their pupils.

******

Squirrels. Pretty and wary. But when they trust you, they come near.

******

The car is moving fast towards the end of the visit. The mothers are at the bus stops with cheeks red from the morning breeze and cherubs clinging to their limbs for that last waft of scent & warmth before they board the yellow bus.

The women, perfectly beautiful women, clicking away on high heels, smart coats over the traditional salwar-kamiz and stylishly worn head scarfs. Most always, a phone attached to their ears.

The car stops at the signal near Jhelum, a man hugs another in a police uniform, shakes his hands, keeps his palm on his heart.

******

The car is speeding up now and I am looking at the houses with triangle tops, chimneys and red bricks.

And I am suddenly a six year old, wildly moving a red crayon over a house with a triangle top, chimney and red bricks. Always the triangle top, chimney and red bricks.

I hear my Aunt teasing me,"Again a house? Always the same shape? There are no houses with such shapes!"

"There are,"I hear a six year old self muttering stubbornly.

"Where?"

The crayon is fast reducing to a stub and the chimney is coming alive on the paper. I pick a gray crayon for the smoke.

"Where are such houses?" My Aunt asks.

"Somewhere," I said at six. "I will find them."

******

I did.