Phat mela basumati patale lukau

Say a scene is being set—unrest, uprising. Teargas, gunshots, fire, smoke. So much smoke. University halls burning. Youth dying. Hundreds arrested every day. Each night, wailing. Say a woman is a lore. Take everything she shields and pin to the edges of the map. Look at how she combusts. Say this woman has two daughters. Say her daughters are described as ripe. Say when the CRPF jawan bursts her door open, she says, I killed my children so you couldn’t. He pulls her hair, throws her to the ground, places his combat boot on her chest. No tears. No restraint. Say slowly, the mud below the woman shifts and the earth opens up, gulping her before this man could harm her. Say my mother remembers clearly: his boots on her mother’s chest as she and her sister hid under the bed.