Snuggling my mother’s tireless feet,
I lay dead after school.
Tired and anxious I would try sleep,
And speak to God.
Just when I was there I would hear the bell.
The Hafiz would enter all fresh,
Kurta-pyjama so prim and proper.
The small, intricately done muslin cap seemed sewn to his head.
I despised the sweet incense he wore,
More than his uncanny smile.
I would wash myself clean,
Wear full sleeves,
And full lengths, everything.
If only I could speak to God.
Few words to greet,
And I would read.
I learnt it so well. Truly,
I don’t know how.
But, he must correct me.
For I did not follow the nasal twang.
Must learn how to speak to God, correctly.
One hour of obscurity,
His perfect elocution seemed ugly to me.
I would sit drooped.
My right hand must point at the text,
When I would speak to God.
Always pulling my scarf below till the brows.
Felt powerful when I could escape his stare.
He knew how to read perfect, all the text
In a language he did not know.
Years and years, today I cant read that text so well anymore.
I have happily withdrawn.
Now, I often speak to God,
No letters anymore.
But in those sighs,
And signs of hope.
