It was the 19th of September 1963 when Abi died.
He was loved immensely by me. Hardly a day has passed when I do not think of him. I think of him when I read a book or even read a great sentence. I think of him when I listen to Eastern Classical Music; Operas; Symphonies; Qavvaalis. I think of him when someone asks for a piece of the shajraa: how quickly he would bring out his Sheaffer's and draw it out on his pad. I think of him every time I wish I should have heard family stories more often from him. I think of him when I hear a great shayr. I think of him each time I open his Ghazals, Nazms, Stories. I even think of him when I joke, often.
It's impossible for me to talk about his day of death.
Far too tortuous.
Here is the poem he read out to me after I arrived
from a long and weary trip at sea the day before he died.
It was written 4 days before his death.