Clueless Ink

Praying for a Miracle

Today, I fought with someone in my family.

Not because I said Pahalgam was justified.

Not because I denied the loss.

Innocent lives were taken,

that truth needs no debate.

We know who’s right, who’s not.

I just shared

a very true-to-my-heart,

unpolished thought,

That we’re lucky.

Lucky enough to sit here

and talk about it

while others bleed on borders,

while mothers grieve in silence.

I just said,

this shouldn’t be

a marketing campaign.

If trademarks are being filed,

if brands want to cash in,

then grief has turned to wildfire;

and that burns deeper than missiles.

What aches most

is not the loss alone,

but the noise.

The loud voices of those

with no skin in the game,

chanting war from cushioned homes.

You’re just another working-class person

marketing for free.

Sharing slogans like it’s nothing,

from a war you’ll never fight.

Ask the families.

Ask the ones who wait

for a knock,

a phone call,

a miracle.

They’re scared.

(Even I’m scared.)

(Even I want this bloodbath to end.)

(Even I’m waiting for a miracle.)

Think about them,

before turning rage

into reels.

Before hashtags become

a substitute for empathy.

Of course, India’s is retaliating

But why are we,

the lucky,

the untouched,

screaming for vengeance

from behind a screen?

Maybe I’m one of them too.

My opinion means little.

I’m just one more

clueless, lucky soul

who doesn’t have to wonder

if someone I love

is struggling on our borders.

Anything I post

feels meaningless,

I’m no help

while a massacre unfolds.

Ashamed

that all I can do is post,

while the public

chants for war,

manifests death

like it’s a badge.

while soldiers

fight without any.

I’m just one more

clueless, lucky soul

waiting for a miracle to set us free.