Grandfather- a poem by Javed Alam

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)
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