Mushtaque B Barq

Under the bough of cherries

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Our cherry trees are green, we are confined to their crimson rush carrying our blood cells to newer curves, changing entire hormonal heterogeneity, tantalizing the blossom to reach our backyards, luring our future seeds to wring the deluxe cheeks, deprive them of dulcet divinity, a pipe dream so to say, and from the kernel our little flesh has sprouted a hybrid hyphenation: traditional leaves and modified branches, a technique called grafting of guts. One that synthesises a screech in the bars and the other a catchphrase in the worship places, topsturvying sainthood, re-shaping our paper boats to encourage a pseudo verve among dwellers at the bay, who between dusk and dawn dance , an endorsement , but in disguise a dissemination and  diffusion of  brands . We live in this high-tech colony wherein human blood is accessible at the squares and agreements obliterated at the ceremonies for the brands to be subsidized under the costume of nationalism. We are hybrid hypothesis of hypocrisy and hypersensitive non- sense. We have cheery trees well placed in our traditional graveyards to mark our bleeding boughs. Sleeping in the weeping wells are our pomegranates, asking for headstones for historians need evidence, but the poets ponder over even at their coziest couches invading the infinite vast of imaginations to throw their gauntlets for the publishers who value not the sweat and blood of authors but gift them a set of his own skin wrapped in false smiles. Alas! Our artists are fighting at the tavern for foreign brands and off colour drunkards only hang around to rim up their cups with human blood. What goblets, what wine and what seeker, all wearing thigh tight trousers to expose otherwise a sacred loin holding a fort of fortune and fame. These forlorn chubby cheeked chums under the influence of ‘atoms’ steppede our elements before getting a place in Periodic Tables like patriarchal oppression forcing the one in fear attire to compromise. How now these blood red little globes swivel in reverse course, creating a new genre called ‘Cherry Literature’. A crossbreed of rhyme and eurhythmic compromise. Behind an ugly veil a fair face, they call it a ‘Movement’. Well! Movement needs a moment to think and before these newly born cherries are sold out, I am basking under the scorching sun to pick my bunch.  May a customer or so be tempted to make my earning? If not, I shall enjoy a mouthful and fill a dustbin with seeds placed at the corner of my cornered country wherein cherries are banned for the reason it damages democracy. Breaking is making and vice-versa. Trends are like ripened cherries, before human consumption, birds pounce upon to mark their presence. Life in this part of cheery land is cheerful for cherries have a say strong, representing our female folk who bother not for witnessing bloodshed on the branches and up above the horizon for they have seen much of it and counting. Cherries are identity cards touching the sternum of our existence, making our breasts vomit profusely. We are cherries for a reason; we are sold for a reason. Every season has a reason, a planed treason to rewrite the writing on the walls. Our eyeballs are broken cherries, we see through the spectrum of human serum. The rainbow of ruins has discarded the ‘red pulse’, teaching the so called builder of nation a lesson hard to digest, unfeasible to audience but unnoticed to majestic arc of which it once was a part, an integral part, but now a bone of contention between a hunter and the haunted, leaving our cherries to be a obsession of jackboot. And in the countryside where cherries speak volumes are erroneously packed in wooden boxes never to return, flouting the rules otherwise framed to cherish the moments. These wooden boxes are serving our needs, serving us doubly: to pack pomegranates in the outfit of cherries and to seal a voice so red hot and blazing. Our coffins are big boxes carrying the young bleeding cherries to their final destiny before finding a match or market, thereby reducing a bumper crop into a seasonal thrill. An entity that is labelled ‘ Sold out’ before promotion. Genocide. The way these succulent tissues are dumped in the naked and baked deserts, one can only wait and see how long shall live a tyrant who has pierced his earlobes to hang cherries, enjoying a jingle of our ravished precincts. The wave “Somei Yoshino” from Japan has already in the past dumped millions and now inspiring every nation to follow the suit. Although the cherry blossoms don’t bloom everywhere at the same time, yet they carry same sap like human blood indicating the plight of an oppressive class, throwing the seeds all over the turf we call the mother land.

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