
They say it was an attack.
Like it’s a word.
A headline.
A timestamp.
But it wasn’t just that.
It was a day.
That shattered everything.
And everyone.
The nation shook.
And then went quiet.
But inside us—
The trembling never stopped.
How do you carry this?
When you lost him six days after your wedding.
When you still had mehendi on your hands.
When your bangles were still new.
When he still hadn’t learned your coffee order.
Or
When you’d spent years
Building a life,
One small ritual at a time—
Only to lose him
To hate,
To violence,
To something no human deserves.
Or
When the father who taught you how to ride a bike
Is now just a memory.
When the mother who held your hand through everything
Will never hold it again.
This day
Will live in their bones.
In their breath.
In the empty chairs.
In the rooms that echo
Too loud now.
The world will post.
Mourn.
Light candles.
Pray.
And move on.
Two days.
A month.
Maybe a year.
But the ones left behind
Will carry this day
To their grave.
Like it just happened
Yesterday.
And today.
And again tomorrow.
There are no words
For this kind of pain.
Only silence.
Only shaking.
Only a scream that never fully comes out.
And yet—
We are expected to continue.
Expected to understand.
To normalize.
To say it’s politics.
Or strategy.
Or fate.
No.
It’s cruelty.
It’s inhuman.
It’s hate—
That we’ve allowed to grow.
We are tired.
Of counting bodies.
Of condolences that come too late.
Of leaders who speak like strangers.
Of peace being just a word.
To those who left—
I hope you are somewhere soft.
Somewhere safe.
Somewhere whole.
To those who remain—
This poem is not enough.
But may it sit beside you
In the dark.
Where no one else does.
We remember.
And we will not forget.
The views expressed are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views or positions of iDare.
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