for my grandfather (1949 – 2023)

Nana peddled kerchiefs of starched thread on the ground

Sauntering, he drank from the sky and fed on the ground.

His hankies stuffed the pockets of runny-nosed Parsees

And those big-bellied-boors that spat red on the ground.

The day kismet chose him to journey across the Gulf,

Knotting his hands behind his back, he tread on the ground.

When it rained grains of rice, pilau pervaded puddles

We crowded around the bleating goat, half-dead on the ground.

At noon we rolled out the chatai, the crow caws a bismillah

The brood in banyans breaks bread on the ground.

Mothballed memories ripen like papayas, his whiskers whisper,

His zabiba darkened with every forehead on the ground.

Hamlet on his lips, ‘He gives wisdom to whom He wills,’

chai cools in his saucer, the newspaper sits half-read on the ground.

How could you forget, Aflatoon? Before it was your pocket square,

It was his white cotton rumaal, spread on the ground.