Schadenfreude

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As slick haired tourists

did once— so journalists

descend upon our valley,

  sharpening the lines of our faces

with emphatic taglines,

     tragedy like saunf peppers

the small and medium sized joys

  of their lives

how does it feel— they ask us—

  I point to the Kunhar

 Wild waves

swallowing the shores

Like that—

 As if I, too, want to make

the protective borders

of the nation bleed

I am not a dream customer. I cannot

explicate on pain; its origins

describe the twisted faces of young

mothers

    broken into a million stories.

   The Kunhar hums in my ears—

    in Balakot

   I answer the voices, once and for all –

(and the borders will bleed

for it) In Kaghan

lies the felled schoolhouse,

   the laughter of broken teeth.

That is the story.

This morning I walked towards the makeshift tents

of the city slickers— busy setting up their equipment

The lenses shattered with a brittle sound,

the metal twisted helplessly against

the gravel. Cameras cracked

like knees.

And now, I see you

peering through the lines, to find spine-tingling metaphors

that describe

bombs, bloodied streets,

earthquakes, cancers, disease.

I move towards you with the determination

of a madman; the laptop flies

across the room, the cup of piping hot tea

is emptied on a cosy pile of papers

littering your table.

You are the story today,

I yell till your ears bleed.