My grandfather, the judge Mother
lovingly called Papa, is etched
in my memory as an obelisk of
a man with a white goatee and
bifocals perched on a Roman nose.
In his small study he occupied
the lone armchair at the mahogany
table, with packed bookshelves
along the bluish walls, pulling at
his meerschaum pipe, spreading
a sweet incense-like aroma that still
lingers in my nose though I am now
almost his age with graying hair.
He knocked open the door to
the great mythical worlds of
the ancients in his usual meditative
way, regaling me with stories –
the words flowing from his mouth
laced with the aroma of the smoke
that curled up gently into the air –
of Rama’s reign of eleven thousand
years; of Noah living over nine
hundred years, saving humanity
from extinction; and Thetis’s son
Achilles vanquishing Hector
of Troy, the demigod’s very cry
sending tens of Trojans to death.
“But I won’t live for centuries,
Grandpa,” I sighed dejectedly,
eyeing the floral teacup before him.
“That’s living several lives. And
nor am I a demigod.” He met
my eyes: “No matter.” Adding
with a smile that kindled his face
between scent-filled puffs: “Rings
and knots of joy and grief, all
interlaced and locking. But if
you live it right, one life is enough.”
Note: The Italicized lines are quoted from Valmiki’s Ramayana, retold by William Buck.
As the wolf cannot be a shepherd
neither can a tyrant rule.
– Saadi
He claimed to have descended from the fabled
loins of Nadir Shah, as the bushy-browed
General with an avid desire for women and liquor
boasted of his notorious Persian progenitor.
Thus Yahya met Madam Aqleem Akhter, former
wife of a police officer, with a sharp wit and
a ready smile, who tossed her burqa in the wind
to trade in girls for high society in Rawalpindi.
Soon she became his domestic partner though
his first love was always liquor, and by and by
her flapping dupatta sang of General Rani in
the air, who was mired in her country’s affairs.
With a bottle of whiskey in his hand and his
rani’s voice in his ear, General Yahya plotted
to rob the treasures of the Bengal delta like
Nadir Shah the riches of once wealthy India.
So stepping into the shoes of his progenitor who
had sacked Delhi over two centuries ago, he let
loose hell in Dhaka on a March night in ’71,
dying the green city red with great slaughter.
But while the victorious Nadir quit Delhi in
two months after grabbing the Peacock Throne,
with tons of rupees and diamonds, gems and
jewels, flashing the crown jewel Koh-i-Noor,
Yahya was obliged to cede half the nation after
nine months of combat and carnage and millions
blown to bits, to the valiant tigers that had
risen after slumber in unvanquishable number.
Shamed and disgraced, without a glory like his
ancestor, he bowed out parting with the ribbons
and medals that had adorned his chest to live a
solitary life, shunned even by Aqleem Akhter.
Left alone with his liquor, to potter about his
house without power, he escaped the fate
of his progenitor, who had lost his head
to the sharp knife of his wayward commander.
When his life-long affair finally caught up with
Yahya, his fellow soldiers saluted the General’s
coffin before its journey to the hereafter, doused
in the sighs and cries of millions and their pain.
We’re made in God’s image, says the Good Book.
But God can’t be found by reading a book.
We must peek for God deep into our hearts.
That can’t be taught by prayers in a book.
Shakespeare can’t be made by studying Shakespeare,
Claims the gifted Emerson in his book.
Simon realizes where evil lives:
We can find it in William Golding’s book.
We must cultivate our garden, so says
Voltaire after Candide’s trips in his book.
God will show up in our deeds when goodness
Rules our hearts, not the phrases of a book.
Born in Dhaka, Bangladesh, Ronny Noor is an award-winning professor and writer. His poems, stories, and essays have been published around the world, in journals and newspapers including Short Story, South Asian Review, The Toronto Review, Kokako, FreeXpresSion, The Ghazal Page, The Daily Star, and Contemporary Literary Review India. He is also the author of Snake Dance in Berlin (a novel), Slice of Heaven and Other Essays (an anthology), and Where Heaven Spreads Wide & Other Stories (a collection).