Cherished for decades by many and which have hackneyed by now. Zealots of our infamous time and gloomy heydays have rather magnified the old phrases which were bestowed to the, then, ignorant masses to augment our assimilation to the brownie august civilization of Aryans.

Indeed an enticing or somewhat an easy description for an English educated north Indian, "The Switzerland of the east ". The easy-picked description has developed into the most-pronounced- cliché to defend the beauty and the only way to muffle the newborn instinctive description of its own populace.

Is this fair enough to consider as the failure of literary circuit in the dale threateningly guarded by the antagonist band of brothers somehow vaguely , but never accepted, incorporated into the distorted history of the land of jewels?

The land of jewels in the gloomy frame of mind has been caressed by the ethnic masses but this has been torn and blistered in the tug-of-wars staged by the threatened and manipulative some , for they foresee the score they settle against will buy them tranquility and strength for their promised land , contrary to what the masses who caress the virgin land, which has been devirginised by the raiding defenders of the largest democracy much-cherished by the myopic media-centred world.

As every dew drop has become the tears of the mournful evening in the petrified dale the brother in arms are rubbing more salt into our injuries with relentless recollection to equate our bygone mischief with their contemplating inhuman misdeeds.

While the flagged state is traumatized and yearning for little to eat our goods carriers are juxtaposed to our empty stomach but at an unreachable place, much to the glory of the vengeance seekers fathered by the antagonist rebellious marauding few.

My feeling and expressions are rather racist but to opinion any voice has got to be glossed in some circumstances as the folks across the globe are more concerned about the cynical beauty even though the truth is in its most gross manner.

How a man from the Wall Street can comprehend the contained pain that has been piercing our psyche and that has made us rotten-corpses in oblivion? And the world has assigned ignorant folks clad in Armani suit to look after the diabolic engagement behind the silky curtain of democracy. Infuriated we are so do hapless in this undisclosed epicenter of suffering and wailing.

This challenged my half-nourished psyche soon drove me out, like others, to the valley of the Indus valley civilization only to be assimilated and absorbed to the most undesired and one-of-the-magnified cult a strife-torn chum has witnessed.

Their leaders are embraced and hailed my many at every nook and corner for they are the caretakers of suppressed basic right and the right of our existence.

Every individual from that dale has been bestowed the right to be silent and granted the privilege to take refuge only to be away from the punctured dale for the lifetime. Is this we all desire? The silent suffering has gnawed our will and right and we are reduced to the status of scattered few collecting our seldom- heard tidings from the well-connected network.

The appropriate accolade for our triumph for the monolithically established Indian, which can never be braved by petite we, has been less generous. Nevertheless we try but the strengthened system seems to have more shrewd manipulation than we can ever exercise.

Thousands have been waging war against the seemingly august democracy which has dehumanized us and named us the traitors but the warriors to the downtrodden masses. Time has changed and the optimistic bloodshed revolution has been sabotaged and slugging, may be our freedom is destined to doom in between vigorous convulsion and pounding by the state-of-art Indian administration.

Fifty years has of arm wielding has honored us with exodus and refugee status in the land of enemy to yearn our protection and the meager wealth gushing out to the well-marketed Indian cities thinning our coffer and consequently to crop up with more discrimination and veering our pristine past to the bog of Indian civilization.

Bogged we are and muffled by the ongoing process but seldom do we complain about it as we never get a stake in this august civilization which has titled us as bumpkins and traitors.

Still hauntingly I recall the day my mother had to help me pack my daddy's old suitcase and my needs for the refugee camp to secure a place and buy her son a peaceful secured life with a promising future.

In exchange my shattered mom had to amass all she had at the strange city where my future and consciousness would be traded with money. Apparently the thinned and bony family afforded all the fanciful and glittering things for my tranquil life in the land of could-never-be -called-mind. But my past failed to erase and I was fated to be more polemic of my occupation force.

Did encounter sympathetic many during my reluctant stay in the city which I rechristened eventually as my second home which, supposedly, dragged me to the point of a disastrous sensitive life, but the understanding of the few was too diminutive to unplug the crimes against humanity .

Had to compel life to draw a crystal line and that instigated me to embrace white folks as well as my temporary dear companions. Quality time we had together for I was rather willing to escape from my bitter past and the deprived parental which was ordained by the prevailing political marauding.

Rotten I and we are in fury and easily infuriated by any sensible remark of our snatched homeland, the dale where we had played and enabled us to think and appreciate the value of freedom of existence.

Once in few years would we snuggle ourselves in the frequently derailed train with its record-breaking longest journey of 4 nights to get a glimpse and refurbish our old but deprived taste of the land which brought us up.

Hooded we are always in black , not that we only mourned but for the sake of safety and to elude the gloomy roads ahead in the our own home town and those who could dodge many times those perils would be deemed the survivor of the fittest.

Soon the survivors, tale would be the talk of the provincial town and would easily be faded into the survival tales of many and for a forgetful person like me it was always hard to be captivated so only dodgy tales of mine would only be recorded in the tattered diary with my best used cliché.

Here I am again in a foreign country taking another refuge consistently haunted by my nostalgic past scribbling hastily my bitter memoirs and anger trying to figure out to who this be directed.

The desire to unleash my anger has overrun my writing but I am obliged to unleash what angers me the most even though I am concisely not sure who should be the victim of my polemic writing.

If I were to write this few decades back then this surely would be against the flimsy Indian system.

Time has evolved so do the people and the evolution has multiplied the black sheep in the family. I do also bombard some section of my establishments, much to my horror, but I am a humanist.

Yes, bombing my own mounding folks and drawing more criticism is the only inevitable path I can dare to balance the sentiments of many.

Is that what I have been destined for refreshing my nostalgic memoirs by eavesdropping into the sensible numbers of "Tapta" in the middle of a polluted and congested city?

Walking each day with thoughtful thoughts and waking up unloved always entangled in an eddy surrendering to the ordained fate. Disgustingly I accept this destiny of mine only to spend more of my time perching on this metallic chair and burying my fateful life among the literary pages.

Inescapable love does follow me as the taste of freedom and beauty of life still lingers in my mind but it is a life between bitter, which can never be washed off, and the beautiful love which we were taught to feel but dashed in the hot pursuit of freedom.

Is it too much asking for a man who has been pursuing the unreachable arena?