Today is Father’s Day,
And I stand beneath the old banyan tree-
Bathed in the golden hush of late afternoon.
The sun is slowly sinking,
Just as you once slipped away,
Right before my eyes- yet forever out of reach.
Do you know, Father,
Even now, looking at your photograph makes my chest heavy?
The silence in your eyes-
That same silence now gathers in my throat,
Rising like a poem from the ache of memory.
You never said, “I love you,”
But we always knew.
It was there in the creases of your shirt,
In the sleepless hush of night,
In the quiet ticking of your broken watch-
Every detail held our names softly written.
You fled the grip of Karachi,
Not with fear, but duty clenched in your jaw.
There were no microphones in your hand,
No stage to announce your courage-
Only a defiant heart,
And a land that called you “son.”
Your shoulder bore no medals,
But it bore the weight of freedom,
And somewhere in your silent walk
We found the shape of heroism.
You never told us war stories-
Still, we understood.
Your life was made of battles
That ended not in applause,
But in the quiet triumph of survival.
Now, I am a father myself,
Trying to become a banyan tree,
Trying to stretch shade over small tired heads.
But I have learned-
Your kind of shadow is not easily cast.
Your silence remains the strongest language I know.
When I stand beside your grave,
I place my hand on the stone and say-
“You were, you are, you will always be.
In my blood, in my gait, in my voice.
One day, my children will know-
Their grandfather was a warrior.”
So today, on Father’s Day, I say nothing aloud.
I simply stand in the banyan’s shade,
Listening for your footsteps,
The creak of your knees, the hush of your breath-
All that was-
My first lesson,
My first strength.
FP/MI
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