I met you in a mosque today. Or at least, I want to believe that I did.
You stood next to me during the prayer. Or maybe, he did. I don’t know.
I do know that his hands were covered with wrinkles to such an extent that it was hard to believe if they were ever unwrinkled.
From the side glimpse as he prayed next to where I did, his lips never stopped quivering.
Despite a neck that was socketed deep in a spiral, he had a symmetric beard.
His toes were like a banyan tree that outlived the orchard.
He smelled like the mystic village located a few kilometres off Dalhousie.
I remember how you combed your beard every time you noticed them.
I loved watching you do it and wished I could do the same.
Unfortunately, I didn’t grow facial hear when I was 13 and fortunately, you were there to tell me that l will do it soon.
Having you around was a warm feeling. It’s something inexplicable.
The little things you did was so notable that everything is afresh in my memory.
You awoke us with your regular mouth cleaning and refused to warm water to perform ablution even in reckless winters.
Whoever of us recited more pages of the Qur’an, you gave them an additional rupee.
It still wasn’t what made us feel wealthy. It was your presence that I did.
I fail to understand how I could never acknowledge that having your grandfather by your side is a matter of great fortune until I lost you.
By the time I grew up enough to grow beard, you grew too old to witness it.
Or perhaps, it was your time to depart me.
There isn’t a moment when I don’t miss you and don’t wish that wherever you’re, you’re at peace.