Grandfather
My grandfather, a bearded family man, dressed in a khan dress, a waistcoat, a brown cap made of lambskin, would often sit in a room smoking his hookah. He, dutifully, woke up before the dawn, for his morning prayers, lighting the kitchen fireplace to cook, long before the rest of the family woke up. He liked the company of his, peasant, friends. He was kind, more than his children, to his orphaned grandchildren. His wife, my maternal grandmother, I remember mostly praying or chatting. She never cooked. He tuned to Radio, daily, mumbling Sufi songs with his eyes closed, as if in a transcendental state. He would talk, to his grandchildren, about his six months pilgrimage to Mecca, by a ship, about sea burials of pilgrims, who could not make to the land. He would distribute Zamzam water, discovered by the heel of thirsty prophet Ismail, among the family and friends, even years after his return from Mecca. To follow the tradition of the prophet, he would, for months, look after the sacrificial sheep. He would feed, wash, and apply henna dye to them, until the annual festival to commemorate the sacrifice of prophet Abraham. We went through his things. We found his marriage certificate, witnessed by would be prime minister, his snow-white burial garment he bought, decades before his death, from Mecca. His home, filled with soundless words, memories, of his grandchildren, now sold to some strangers. They have whitewashed, memory-stains, voice-stains of our childhood and his life. He, persistently, told us "no human being, living or dead, is worth worshiping". He deserves his own prayer from God. (for Haji Ramadan) ©https://www.poeticnoesis.com/ |
PoemsThese poems have been previously published in various literary journals, magazines, books and anthologies around the globe including the UK, the USA, Ireland and Canada.
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