First draft. Munnu. 2013.

From 27 March 2013. The first draft of Munnu. For Abba who made Fridays special. Soon after finishing writing munnu I felt a strange kind of sadness. I carried all the childhood memories of Kashmir with me all the time for 25 years. But munnu became an opaque wall between me and my memories. No one, no book had warned me about such consequences. I didn’t read munnu after it was published. I remembered every event, but not in a way that I could write about. I felt nothing as if lost. Then Kashmir also changed to the extent that it is hard to relate to the streets of my hometown. The colourful houses only remind one of the future ruins. There is so much of strain while having a conversation with friends, silence seems like the only way to share everything. The absence of hope is so disorienting. Last year a friend had a copy of munnu on his book shelf. I was slightly nervous to open it. I read the whole thing again. Today I came across this text. It feels like the words are there but someone erased their meaning along the way they just erased the purpose of our lives. It is now a struggle to rediscover and rescue the meaning.

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