A Hut At The Corner Of Mosque Poem by Mushtaque B Barq

A HUT AT THE CORNER OF MOSQUE

The pricey space at the corner of the mosque
an ancient wooden structure, an old granny,
a storehouse my imaginative world
like Gillsar running through the backyard
her never-ending tales at the attic
that little platform at the west side of the river
was all to me: microscopic slide and telescopic area.

In the campus
like her arched spine
was a fog tree, a family mark
under which the kids
from the other side of the river
had their private classes and granny
their guru, and in their Gurukul
attendance was obligatory
not by name, not my area
but her nicknames alone.

From that broken window
Sultan-ul- Arifeen's tomb
and Hari Parbat's picturesque
with azan and shunk
in one tune
would call according to the faiths
and faithless would only sleep.

The graveyard and the backwater channels
had one thing in common
the flow_ the symbol of birth
and the graveyard the last abode
and the granny's tales would never end
at the graveyards but certainly on the bank of Gillsar.

The mud walls and thatched roof
of that hut had much to tell
like my grannies wrinkled face
and her widowhood.