Homes

You're sitting in the drawing room with your grandfather.

He reluctantly chews the sandwich you made for him,
 out of fresh vegetables you think he'll like.
He drinks the cup of kehwa like a victory song.


On Sunday mornings he tells you stories about his childhood
 and fragments of him that you never understand.

behind the chinar tree was his favourite hiding place he says.
You wonder does he hide within himself today.


He married his college sweetheart,
He says your mother had a smile just like her.
Both of them are fragile memories to you.
You hold yourself together.

He turns quiet too.


You once asked​ him what his favorite part of having being a lawyer was,

He replied it was saving lives
And you drown in a sad sea of irony.


When you escaped Kashmir with him,
You never knew that the most simple questions with would scour the deepest scars
which then would refuse to heal.


Today, he asked you at dinner, to take him home one last time,
to the roses and gogji in his garden
and to his Graham phone that used to play Kashmiri music all day long.


You keep quiet.

You don't have it in you to say,

"grandfather there is no home anymore. "