Sunday, June 19, 2011

To My Papa



The lucidity of his words
Strange to my juvenile comprehension
The tone of his voice
Serenading the air around
Cascading like a cool spring
On the meadows of my imagination
I loitered about
To be near him
I looked up at the sky
 My hands outstretched
And saw bubbles floating down
In my open palms
When I had a handful of bubbles
I placed them in his lap
He placed a loving hand on my head
And continued talking to his friend
We were both there
In our own worlds
His world a world of wisdom and words
Of  books and ink and crisp sheets of papers
The sound of his pen
Sometimes loud and sometimes soft
I was in my world of bubbles and  clouds
Fairies and flowers
Monsters and demons
Jadu tha sapna tha kya tha
Maine tujhme kya dekha tha
My first rhyme
Full of colours
Oode oode neele neele peele peele pairahan
His lap,my most comfortable chair
His chants of Iqbal
Music to my ears
The month was December
I was draped in vermillion
Henna on my hands
Anklets and trinkets
The sound of shehnai 
dances and merrymaking
My nose freshly pierced
I could not control my tears
Why couldn’t they be gentle with the piercing!
Oh! Why did they have to be so harsh with the needle?
My head on his shoulders
He held me in silence
This silence is the connection
Though sometimes we break it with words


19.6.11

Sketches in literature

Sketches in literature : Shamim Hanafi writes definitive profiles of writers, evaluating their contribution