Among the streams of refugees br He was a boy of nine. br From the winds of Lahore br It was an exile forever. br br He reached a refugee camp, br Life was that of a tramp. br Freedom at midnight was a chain br Hopes were nearly slain. br br But in a stream he survived, br In a Delhi Haweli he gained his roots. br In the rehabilitation process br Time showered upon him grace. br br At the Pahargung slot br His life presented a simple plot. br A small shop, a sparrow’s nest, br For decades that was his living chest. br br Woolen clothing and home appliance, br For people, the corner was a paradise. br Generations knew him well, br He spent his days in that gentle wind. br br He was like a banyan tree, br His life was an open creek. br I was a regular visitor there, br When winter arrived, I needed his sweaters. br br In his presence br My moments were graceful. br He would unfold his life- br A story of struggle and endless strife br br On a dark day, a few years ago, br During the festival of lights br In a blast around that part, br Shedding blood, he left this rueful earth. br br As I peep into his shop now br I see his widow, face very serene. br It is clear her silence speaks volumes, br It seems well she has pardoned the world. br br As I leave the shop with candid feelings br A Bhajan reaches my ears. br “Iswar Allah Tere naam, br Sabko san mathi de Bhagvan*”. br br ******************************************************* br br Iswar Allah...Bhagvan*= Lord, you are known as Iswar and Allah. May you give everybody the right kind of intelligence and mind.