He was a dream.
Relish to the eyes.
He loved reading books and he kept re-reading them.
At any time of the day,
he would just jump out of bed
and read a line from here or a verse from there.
He was poetry himself.
His wheatish skin shone in the rays.
He drank coffee like he made love.
One moment he was enthusiastic, the other he was philosophical.
He’d start humming a song anytime and we’d be dancing to it for hours.
He would make me sit alongside and read his writings.
And he would describe it as if we lived through it.
Endless hours on the couch with the sheets,
he would sit with his headphones listening to Rehman.
And we would sing along!
I could watch him talk to me, play guitar or just read a book.
I could watch him stand gazing out of the window.
I could watch him prepare cornflakes for us or teach me scrambled eggs.
I could watch him do nothing.
I could watch him till the end of time.
He was a dream I lived in real!