(Peace be upon u)Branches drooping uncomfortably, stem, tree in whole, wobbling as anytime soon the ever screeching memory of his will kneel them. A memory which was never a memory, thanks to his lively persona, never faded through these years, an ever lasting memory, which will never fade perhaps.
That unlucky tree, whose agony is understandable, is missing the consummate relation it had with his worn-out bag, the bag that was always there with that broken branch to shoo away its loneliness and used to play childishly with that tree whenever the wind blew. And when the wind did not join them, the bag, the tree and its broken branch, slept, slept and they slept, until and unless their master did not disturb them. And they liked that. That’s what the ‘now lonely’ tree is waiting for. And that broken branch, oh, it is completely broken. It doesn’t like the companion of the wind now. It overtly irritates him.
Earlier that bag shielded the broken branch from the ‘sometimes turbulent’ wind but now the bag is not there and the wind is completely bully now. But its bully-ness is not without reason, of course. It is running hither thither, asking everyone it knows the whereabouts of that bag and his master. It cornered even those dusts that lay at the sand-stone slabs beneath the tree shade, which waited daily, pardon the pun, to be wiped out by his butts.
And those grasses and buds in the park, although relatively new, are wondering what to do. To grow or to die. To give a shade of greenery to this ‘now turned’ pale surroundings or to do what? And what not?
But the sun, who gave him warmth in the winter and en-shaded him in the summer by shining lovingly harsh, is still strong. And its fondness for him is still unassailable, so is its love for him. It comes intermittently, takes a peek underneath the tree, and obviously not finding him, hid itself in the dark clouds.
And do not question the allegiance of the clouds, these are not here to darken the place but they too have come down in search of him. And their intensity can be gauged by the whispering of the branches that the bats have come down from the nearby
Ficus trees.
A
Canis familiaris who used to hover around unwanted, senior than many of us, saliva trickled down his mouth as always, is still there but his presence is withering. Sitting quietly in the dimly lit corridor, it seems saliva is trickling down as usual but when observed closely it was not coming from the mouth.
And imagine the face of those unfortunate pink coloured adobes. Behind the glowing pink and maroon façade lays patches of colour un-identifiable, seems a MF Hussain painting, mystery to a layman.
Such was his legacy that almost every one he encountered turned his fan in the very first meeting. And who did not turn in first, did turn, no doubt, in the second meeting, at most. People termed him amusing, charming, appealing, fascinating, enthralling. And these are only a few superficial words which I easily recall.
To me he was like
Mona Lisa. Always smiling. And to whom he was not like
Mona Lisa? But one thing in which he was even better than
Mona Lisa was his originality. Her smile is, pardon the unholy frankness, fake. It is merely a dream and artist’s imagination. And everyone has his own description of
Mona’s smile. To some it is exclusive, to some inclusive, to some intrusive and to some it is sad, to some happy, to some ‘forced’. After all smile is a smile.
But his was simply a simple smile. No exaggeration. And the notable point is that very few, probably none, noticed it earlier, such was his absolute originality. No one can match his true smile, even
Mona Lisa can’t.
And no one minded waiting for his smile. Such was his persona.
And suddenly one day his smile felt uneasy tiredness, tiredness for the first time perhaps, for the last time for sure. And that smile deserted us indefinitely, up in the streams.
But his smiling voice still reverberates my mind,
“hey Neyaz! kaisa hai?”
