How much courage do you need to
think
About my father beyond the Shawls, and
the Shikaras;
Beyond the fishermen and the frozen forests;
And the roaring 1990s, and that
bloody Jhelum
That ferried the Gods across the
mountains;
Once in a blue moon, we visit each
other
(Though the soldiers often visit us during
CASOs)
And wonder whether the past was our
present
Or if the otherwise is true;
We trace our memories as far back
As the black crow’s beak can tell;
It once did caw-caw God’s name and
fell;
(Mother says, “Crows grow a beak every
century
And perish after the number reaches
seven”)
My father weaves exquisite oriental carpets
That grow trees of hope; birds of
spring─
As the trees turn into woods and the
birds
Travel to the warm zones, the carpet
falls down,
Done, on a broker’s shoulder bound
to New Delhi;
My father loses track─ his eyes blur
and thighs tremor;
“One day”, he says, “I shall own birds
and the spring
And gather dew drops in my lawn or
rest like a king.
© Ashaq Hussain Parray
