As an ordinary civilian, my sips of tea are filled with seldom spoons of political discussions. I have spent hours pondering over the ‘legal’ jurisdiction of corruption and the boundaries one must limit itself to nibble on the pieces of humanity. With individuals compelled to assume that a leader can fill his stomach and throw out scraps of meat is a convenient approach towards balancing democracy, one must question the audacity of valuing an individual as a mere peasant.

There are bullet sounds resonating from different shadows, imprints of beds left behind on dry grass, yet the ‘jailed’ defenders, proclaimed leaders, demand freedom by diverting all attention towards the glorious roads that run deep below the ground and dazzle under the delusional sunlight. While our nation cries for the bleeding hearts of Kashmiris, there are people who smirk over their wounds and shriek from the cocoons created by their own shadows and inner demons-corrupted demons.

Patriotism and self-defence are no longer spouted from the same root. To preserve one’s own sanity and freedom, leaders can feast upon the soil of their nation. The vacant flags swayed by many have turned white only to reflect the need of retreating away from the repercussions of indulging in corrupt affairs. There are no longer any true family bonds clinging with political regimes, the roots of sympathy and defeat are only acknowledged to get rid of the chains that are clawing against the sins of wrongdoers and opportunists.

Circumstances have morphed the need to gobble sweet cakes with my sour sips of tea. There are many who claim to be sprouting the voice of the public, but my sips of tea only turn sour with their promises. The sins of black hearts have weighed heavily on my country, yet my soul deliberately warms up to the idea of staying an unbiased native. The associations are hefty…the pressure of making a change is only shoved upon the shoulders of the wise.

Despite the bitter pleas of mercy, the course of nature is slowly rolling into action. The wounded and ugly have been unmasked and are grovelling for a sip of warm tea. The mere peasants are echoing their opinion and eyeing the ‘jailed’ leaders with uncanny suspicion. However, there are those who still allow money to paint their minds and souls. Their green pockets are pulling against the wise claws that are punishing their dark hearts out of hiding.

Anger erupts when bitter lies are displayed for mercy. The victims of inhumanity are besieged by the declarers of peace. As the last sip of my warm tea twirls at the bottom of my tea, the agonized sounds are echoed by opinions being defined as mine.

Single sips of tea keep my opinions mute while the ‘jailed’ leaders feign my voice to hold enough empathy for their sins. However, 2019 has arisen as a new beginning for my voice. My hopes are uplifted as the world finally hears my nation’s sighs. Those who stole from sugary pits are now drinking black coffee with bitter expressions and chewing on stale pieces of bread.

My leader offers crystals for my sips of tea that have grown cold.