Divided into doorways, verandahs, porches, rooms, and kitchens,
Yet connected to one another,
In ancestral homes.
With worn-out red brick floors
And lime plaster, damp walls,
Overgrown vines,
Long grass growing on the roofs,
And tamarind and golden shower trees
All silently watch in perpetual mourning.
Things inside ancestral homes are also the same.
Brass and copper utensils on shelves
Awaiting dusting and polishing hands,
Furniture from Chiniot,
And cups and teapots from Gujarat
Remain empty,
Clothes and raincoats hanging on hooks
Awaiting to be worn,
And walking sticks and canes
Search for hands to support them.
Framed family trees,
Black-and-white and sepia photographs,
Sacred books on shelves,
And Marxist literature from the era of camaraderie
All remain in their respective places.
The inhabitants of ancestral homes are also the same:
Mothers with nearly blind eyes, wearing glasses of the last degree,
And fathers with trembling hands,
And widows who sacrificed their lives for a great cause,
Once young and passionate.
In ancestral homes, it is not people but hours and centuries that fall ill,
Times cough,
Ancestral homes believe steadfastly in promises of return,
Like a faithful rural lover,
And keep their hearts and doors open
For those who never come.
For poets,
What greater romance than the afternoons of ancestral streets
And the gardens at the back,
Where butterflies cannot maintain their balance,
And crash-land on flowers and leaves,
And without sun and rain,
Laughter spreads like a rainbow,
And girls like breezes forget the count of seven colors.
In ancestral homes,
Time does not grow old,
In fact, we do not remain children,
And instead of toys, we start driving real cars,
And sometimes even real guns.
The paths leading to ancestral homes are also the same:
Desolate and dusty,
Devoid of travelers,
Where whirlwinds swirl,
Or sometimes an ambulance carrying a corpse passes by.
Ancestral cemeteries, covered with shrubs and wild plants,
Are briefly inhabited,
And then, amidst prayers and chatter,
The scene gets scattered,
Until even the weather-weary clouds
Move towards some hill town.
The sorrows of ancestral paths cannot be composed in verse,
Cannot be cried over in remembrance,
They can only be shared with someone akin to oneself.
Ages pass,
In cities and countries,
Wooden trunks and chests never abandon us,
If there is no space in the homes,
They remain in the junkyards of hearts and minds,
Never to be opened,
And then one day, we ourselves become closed,
Completing our days before the last day on earth arrives!
