Are The Postboxes There, White?

Kartikay

If a letter was written here today,

with my pen, stained with sighs,

would it reach somewhere if I

addressed it just “To The River Jhelum,

P.O. Srinagar”? Not knowing who

deserves to read, or who does not–

a meaningless apology written

in the pitiable hand

of a voiceless man

of this hollowed country.

Would it still be sent to the post office?

And will they risk breaking Tradition

to open a letter not addressed to them?

Surely, it will be a new thing.

If personal letters were opened in the post office

of Srinagar, would they have not brought

down its roof with grief by now?

And we would have seen on the news

that wondrous post office high up

in the exotic mountain state,

somehow flooded with saltwater,

so far from the sea.

I wonder who would open it,

if somehow it did end up reaching?

Would the postmaster be a man in

Camouflage habit, having replaced khakhi

as rumours grew of dangerous letters –

weapons, laced with poisonous couplets.

Would they wear hazard suits, anticipating

explosive lines to burst out of the envelope?

Do bomb squads now deliver letters to houses?

Or do they just shut them in a vault,

for the safety of the intended recipient?

No. That would be madness.

What about the house, so used to

the tears of loss? Does it well up

upon the sight of a Khakhi man at the door,

there to give something instead of taking

Or is it stunned with irony?

Can a letter with all that it may say,

ever compare to the silent

presence of its sender instead?

Maybe the house prefers the letter?

Not having to worry about

another inhabitant

Going out on a sunny day,

and not coming back.

Are some of the houses there red—