I’m sorry—
I said it by mistake:
Hello, Grandfather...
in English.
But you’re not just Grandfather, are you?
In our Sindhi, you are either Dada
or Nana.
Not one, but two—a difference of direction, of origin,
of lineage, of love.
And I keep wondering—
why does English only have one expression
for two different worlds of love?
Why does it singularize
what we have always known
to be double?
But does it matter—
this name in a language?
Is Grandfather less real
because he is wrapped in English
and not in Sindhi?
Are we any less real
when language cannot carry
the shape of our relation?
Tell me, truly—
am I your grandson?
Or are you my grandfather?
Are we maternal or paternal?
Are we eternal?
Are we fraternal?
Are you Nana or Dada?
Or are you both?
I am the song of your son,
or the poem of your daughter,
or perhaps the whisper
between them—
a sacred in-between.
Let me be more—
let me be the river’s child,
the flicker of fire in your memory,
a breeze from Sindh that carries
your sweat, your scent,
your silent prayer.
Let me be from your Atma,
your Agni,
your water,
your will—
and all the other things
that wished to become you
as you wished to become them.
As I keep switching you,
you become my memory—
an old soul of Sindh
where we don’t have
the neutral English "grandfather"—
we have Dada,
we have Nana.
Mother is different.
Father is different.
And that difference—
it lives in the names:
Dada and Nana.
But in English,
there’s just "grandfather."
One word.
A singular shadow
of two living flames.
Doesn’t that feel lonely?
Doesn’t he, the English grandfather,
feel too contained—
subjectivized—
a figure folded into grammar,
lacking the branches
that stretch into maternal and paternal skies?
I wish I could take that English grandfather
to meet my Dada and Nana sometimes.
Take him to Sindh.
Introduce him
to memory, to duality,
to the surs of relational being.
But did I forget?
To bring you to Sindh?
To Dada, to Nana,
to the whole sacred everything?
Am I the grandson?
You grandfather?
Or do we both like a song suspended between lines
of blood and water?
Do you remember where I saw you last?
In Sukkur—
by Parbhat Talkies,
near Baba Barkhandi Maharaj’s temple,
just south—
by the station signboard that says "Rohri Junction."
I saw you there.
exactly—
your memory. Waiting for you... like passengers waiting at the train station...
Long ago.
It was my first visit.
I came from Pathan Colony, Hyderabad
in a Reed Bus,
Having winddowns open from Hyderabad to Sukker…
in the windy...chilly weather….
it was raining...
I was with a friend.
Sukkur was raining—
and the city was flooded.
The water rose.
It took you with it.
But your neighborhood still lingers
in my mind,
where you came to do your morning stretches—
your walking,
your silence.
But tell me,
do you remember
what the river at Sukkur once whispered to you?
Will you miss me?
It asked.
And you said:
"How can I miss you
when I will never forget you?"
Nana, Dada—
as for me, you are both.
I am the voice from the riverbank
that has never forgotten you—
like you never forgot the river.
Remember—
I sent you two letters:
one that you received,
and one still traveling,
held in the hush of the current.
These letters were given to me
by the sounds of the river,
when I went to goodbye.
Zinda Pir handed them to me.
And Zinda Pir said:
“Whether Nana or Dada—
names do not matter.
What matters
is the keeping of relations—
with the river.
Let it send its letters
to those still waiting
to know.”
Tell me—
what are the surs
of the river in Sindh?
These are surs of your
memory—
but also of joy,
the joy that Zinda Pir’s letters bring
as I hand them to you,
my Dada, my Nana.
I also received a chitti for
you—
from Jhulelal.
You remember that journey?
We went there once—
and I saw… two of me.
One before, in the dark dress
with my pluralness.
They couldn’t see me.
I passed unnoticed.
And then—
I returned, with her.
Different.
Again, they could not recognize me.
Then I told them—
“I am the same.
But I have become two,
like Udero Lal and Tahir Shaikh—
Hindu and Muslim—
water and flame—
a merging where everything becomes the same.”
Like the waters of Udero Lal
and Shaikh Tahir—
not black,
not white,
not even blue—
but something more ancient:
The trust in the squinch
of the thirst.
Like your thirst for Sindh, Dada,
and my thirst for Sindh, Nana—
this is our genealogy.
This is why we are plural.
And through these letters,
in these dualities,
you can become me,
and I, you.
But tell me—
my double-grandfather,
with the prefixes and suffixes
of Nana and Dada—
When will this English singularity,
this lonely “grandfather,”
dissolve these walls of alienation?
When will humanity be
one and another at once?
For the genealogies are here—
in the letters,
in the sounds,
in the rivers.
They were gifted to me
for my Sindh.
For you, my Nana, my Dada.
Even for English.
Even if it struggles to hold me—
and others like me—
because of its eternal singularity.
But you know, don’t you?
You know what Bedil of Rohri
says—
the poet, the whisperer from your land—
"Those entangled
in the staircase of words
will never cross
the ladder of love."
Ithaca, NY, April 21, 2025
