It was the 19th of September 1963 when Abi died.
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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.
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It's impossible for me to talk about his day of death.
Far too tortuous.
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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.
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I wish I could write like that.
I try.
But it never works out.
Read the following if you want to know more about my Abi,
our family, and a few old friends.
our family, and a few old friends.
My paternal family history - 1


*hugs*
ReplyDeleteKhaak mein kya suratein hongi, ke pinhaan ho gayiin
Much love, for I can only try to share your pain. Can't even imagine what you feel each day
Thanks, #hushed, for your wishes.
ReplyDeleteThrough your storytelling and anecdotes, your Abi comes alive for us. I have but a sense of the intensity of your pain and how much you miss him. It breaks my heart :( He is one of the only people I have never met whom I regret not knowing. Am glad we at least have his poems and other writings. Much love.
ReplyDeleteI am glad you are doing well now. To read your posts is sheer delight.
ReplyDeleteThank you Sabeen, but I am sure I have bored you enough with details about him.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Salman Siddiqui sahab. It's always a pleasure to read your words.