Snowfall: Then And Now

By Muzaffar Ahmad Nengroo

White-fleece crystals knocked the inert veneer,

Swiftly & silently caressed the skin-deep floor.

Trees and plants; green and hued in galore,

Undyed globs tugged down the mighty boughs,

Tintless blobs besieged the plains and the knobs.

The grey pinnacles are painted white,

Sparkle bright in the lustrous moonlight.

The spooky Arctic chills of the wind,

Chill the bones, Heart and mind.

Elders are desperate and children are merrier,

On seeing the siege of the polar manoeuvre.

Orchards bowed, arched and crooked; inflected wind,

Even the mighty verdant heights crumble and bind,

Twigs with the boughs and branches with the trunks.

Elders muffled, hurled towards the orchards,

Children romped rosy in the bleached yards.

Human designs don’t bear the Nature’s Might,

Feeble perceptions enjoy every inch of the Bright.

I remember those thatched roofs,

Ornamented with the pendent mass of ice,

Hanging like those of bright, brittle crystal earrings,

Some were ferocious like those of daggers of glass,

Some were feeble as crystal fangs, bound to fall…

Those snow bowls meshed with milk and sugar I often dream,

Children used to enjoy as the home made ice-cream.

I remember those white sheets of glass,

Endemic to the still scant waters of sere streams.

I dream those snow-balls, big and small

Rolled on the surface and thrown at the fellow.

I miss that ‘throwing’ the white balls mellow…

I play with those snow-beings in my dreams,

With charcoal eyes and red chili nose.

Made by children and adults in reams.

This spirit was taken like a prescribed dose.

Such was my world, free and innocent,

Free of servitude, free of any bondage.

Only those scolds and mother’s rebukes nascent.

I dream those skiing attires, those blissful moments,

When children pushed each other on those fleece paths.

They used to bumble and tumble, mumble and fumble.

I remember that story-telling, the pure rustic imagination,

Under the shades of the hayricks those halcyon fantasies.

With my pockets full of rice meal or corn meal with sugar,

Feeling the king of my own fanciful world.

No mental loads clogged our spontaneous fantasy.

We used to ramble through the open grey fields,

No bondages of any kind, whatsoever;

Halted our journeys and hampered our trails.

I used to watch those white fleece clad trees, Lofty and frosty shedding their chilled tears.

Dripping from the tips of the twigs,

As the tiny pearls drip from the roofs after showers.

I dream those white hummocks rolled and stacked,

To make them shields in a snowball fights.

I still feel those chilled tickles of frosty slithering

When the scattered flakes seeped through my muffler.

My hands used to be numb and ruddy red,

My ripped socks used to be Arctic wet,

Numb toes blush with pinkish red.

Quite painful when thawed out by the Kangri.

Those snowball fights were fortifying

Of the rustic tastes; simple and selfless.

Free from any foreign dilution,

Free from any hegemonic order!

I do remember those turgid fingers,

Inflamed toes and earlobes alike.

Those spiteful swellings by fiendish frostbites.

Yet my small world was charming

Smiling, Beaming and cheerful blushing;

In that white cladding, among the silver heights.

Much has changed now, arcane and rife.

No more rustic games and sports-

Snow-ball fights and skiing glamour,

Those hopscotches, piggybacks and marbles…

That innocent world is robbed & sacked

By the onslaughts of mechanized clamour.

Now, children remain indoors,

Caged and confined, stuck in the virtual world,

Of computers, game gizmos and cellphones.

No more frolicking and rollicking,

No more gamboling and romping.

That merriment fervor, that rustic revelry

Has gone to the shadows of drudgery.

Children are tilted by the printed weights,

They do yield to their mental loads.

Now, they are fettered in the mutant globe!

Meals are replaced by the tainted edibles.

Simplicity is raided by the complexity

Of tumultuous spheres and material strains.

I wish the rebirth of that rustic essence

In the modern cladding with candid presence.

Note: This poem has been written in the context of Snowfall in Kashmir. I have tried to demarcate two different eras. Prior to smart phones and post smart phones effects upon the children.

By Muzaffar Ahmad Nengroo