From Heaven’s Gaze
From his celestial perch among the stars, Iqbal gazes down upon the Valley of Kashmir. The distance of nearly a century since his earthly departure has not dimmed his vision nor dulled the pain he feels witnessing the land of his ancestors. The recent Pahalgam massacre of April 21, 2025, followed by five days of military exchanges between India and Pakistan, has reopened ancient scars on the landscape he once walked with reverent steps.
“Has nothing changed?” he whispers to the cosmos. “Has the world not heard the messages I sent through time?”
Iqbal recalls his journey to Kashmir in 1921, when he sat in Nishat Bagh watching smoke and fire emerging from the darkened chinar trees. He remembers how his heart thumped with anguish as he observed the fresh yet deserted graveyards in Lolab Valley. That journey had transformed his poetry, giving birth to verses that lamented Kashmir’s condition while simultaneously prophesying its potential awakening.
“I spoke of the awakening of the self, of khudi – the realisation of one’s inner potential,” Iqbal muses. “Yet I see in Kashmir a ‘self’ repeatedly denied the opportunity to awaken.”
The philosopher-poet observes how the meadows that once inspired his contemplation of divine beauty now bear the scars of violence. The streams that symbolised the eternal flow of life now carry stories of interrupted destinies. The chinar trees that stood as silent witnesses to history now bear witness to yet another chapter of suffering.
In his ethereal vision, Iqbal sees beyond physical destruction to the metaphysical wound inflicted upon Kashmir’s soul. He recognises how the Valley has become a contested symbol rather than a living community – how the people themselves have been rendered invisible in narratives of national security, territorial integrity, and geopolitical strategy.
“When I wrote in my Saqi Nama about the Kashmiri eyes lacking lustre and life, I did not intend my words to be prophetic for generations to come,” he laments. “I sought to awaken, not to predict eternal suffering.”
Addressing the divine Saqi – the cup bearer of spiritual wine – Iqbal composes fresh verses that build upon his original Saqi Nama:
“O Saqi! The wine you poured upon my heart a century ago
Still burns within the valley’s breast, unquenched by time’s slow flow.
The chinar trees I gazed upon in Nishat’s sacred ground
Now tremble not with divine breeze but with mortal weapons’ sound.
I asked you then to pour one drop upon the Kashmiri heart
That sparks might rise from dampened soil and a new awakening start.
Yet now I see the drops that fall are not your sacred wine
But tears of mothers, blood of sons – humanity’s design.”
Iqbal, who often used the image of the Shaheen (eagle) soaring above worldly constraints, now adopts this perspective to survey the broader landscape of the conflict. He sees how the Valley has become a chessboard where powerful players move strategic pieces with little regard for those who call it home.
From his celestial height, national boundaries appear as arbitrary lines drawn across an interconnected landscape. The divisions that humanity has imposed upon the earth seem trivial compared to the shared heritage, the common suffering, and the universal aspirations of those who inhabit the space between these lines.
“I spoke of breaking chains,” Iqbal reflects. “Yet I see new chains being forged with each generation – chains of hatred, suspicion, and historical grievance.”
He observes how the tourist haven of Pahalgam became a killing field – how the very diversity that should enrich humanity became the basis for selecting victims. He sees how religious identity, which he envisioned as a source of moral strength and communal solidarity, has been weaponised to divide people who share the same mountain breeze.
“This is not the self-realisation I advocated,” he whispers. “This is the ‘self’ destroyed by forces that benefit from its fragmentation.”
As Iqbal deepens his meditation, his consciousness expands beyond the immediate conflict to envision what could be. Drawing on his philosophical framework that valued action, transformation, and the realisation of potential, he imagines a Kashmir reborn through the very adversity that threatens to consume it.
“Perhaps,” he contemplates, “this is the fire that forges rather than destroys. Perhaps from this crucible of suffering, a new consciousness will emerge.”
He recalls his own words from decades past:
“Jis Khaak K Zameer Mein Hai Aatish Chinar
Mumkin Nahi Hai Ki Sarad Ho Woh Khaaki Arjumand”
(The soil that holds the fire of maple trees inside its bosom:
That lofty earth can never be cold and lifeless.)
“Yes,” Iqbal affirms to himself, “within that soil still burns the potential for renewal. The seeming deadness is but a winter phase before spring’s inevitable arrival.”
Connecting his timeless philosophy to the present moment, Iqbal crafts a message for the Kashmir of today:
“People of Kashmir, my beloved kin! Your suffering has not gone unnoticed in the realm beyond earthly sight. The chinar’s fire that I spoke of is not merely a poetic device but a living truth within your collective spirit. When nations clash above your heads, remember that their temporary power cannot extinguish the eternal flame that dwells within your soil.”
“To India and Pakistan, I say: You have claimed my poetry as your national treasure, erected monuments in my name, and quoted my verses to justify your positions. Yet you have failed to embody the essence of my message. I spoke of self-realisation, not self-destruction. I advocated for spiritual awakening, not material conquest. I envisioned communities united by higher purpose, not divided by artificial boundaries. I urge you to see Kashmir as a test of your collective humanity. In how you respond to the suffering of Kashmiris lies the measure of your own moral evolution.”
“Remember that when I urged Muslims to unite, it was not to stand against humanity but to contribute their unique spiritual heritage to the universal fellowship of all peoples. The patriotism I once expressed was not the nationalism that divides but the love of homeland that connects one to the earth and its inhabitants.”
As the temporary ceasefire holds and the world’s attention begins to drift elsewhere, Iqbal maintains his vigilant gaze upon the Valley. He knows that superficial peace is not genuine resolution, that silence is not necessarily healing, that the absence of violence is not the presence of justice.
With the patience of eternity, he watches and waits for the day when the verses he composed in anguish might be read in celebration. When the Chinar trees of Kashmir might once again symbolise not suffering but strength. When the black eyes he once lamented as lacking lustre might shine with the light of self-realisation and genuine peace.
Until that day, Allama Iqbal continues his celestial vigil, composing unheard verses that nevertheless find their way into the hearts of those who, like him, love Kashmir not for what it symbolises but for what it is: a living community of souls deserving the dignity that he himself advocated throughout his earthly journey.
And in the gentle rustling of Chinar leaves, in the soft murmur of mountain streams, in the whispered prayers of those who still hope against hope, perhaps – just perhaps – his message continues to find expression in the land that shaped his ancestral memory and inspired some of his most profound reflections on human potential and divine purpose.
Colonel M. Maqbool Shah, SM, Recipient of Rashtriya Gaurav Saman – 2009.
