Untitled by Uzma Sultan. Image Courtesy: ArtChowk Gallery
In the long slow drawl of the afternoon
This room speaks with the lisp of my youngest brother
Who learnt every sound through the accent of the neem leaves
Brushing against the walls
This room speaks in my Nano’s language
Alternating between the jaunty syllables of her sing-song Punjabi
And the smooth cobblestones of her Urdu
Each story repeated twice,
Once for the room to remember
Once for her grandchildren to understand
This room nods its assent to every Nafl prayer offered
In the direction of the neem tree bent in worship, as my Nano once
Described it in a dream – the tree’s posture and the qibla as identical
As the lines and furrows on my Nano’s forehead
This room resounds with the perpetual ringing
Of the phone in the hallway
The one that was never attended as the grandchildren left
One by one, and the servants grew slack
This room recalls the insidious shuffle of sickness, the slow
Footsteps of mortality and the low, sad moan of my Nano’s last days
As she moved from dream to dream
Like the birds who continued to congregate
On the branches of her neem tree
This room still chirps like the birds
Who gave my Nano her first funeral,
These birds, who continue their chores,
And teach their children, and their grandchildren
To sing and speak
The way my Nano taught my youngest brother
In this room.
~Â Syed Jarri Haider
Syed Jarri Haider is a young poet who first entered into English poetry with a course on form, themes and images held by Desi Writers’ Lounge. Presently enrolled in the law programme at LUMS, he believes his work is strongly influenced by the goings-on of a turbulent, but vibrant Lahore, his quiet family home in Islamabad, and the distance in between.
