I never thought I would live to see

our moon-goddess Chandi turn seventy.

Unique from birth, an only child,

this convent girl, a single edelweiss,

in Montreux blossomed, and

in Florence etched her silhouette.

Unable, or unwilling, to escape

her DNA, that prison-cell of identity,

she returned to seesaw twixt Jhang,

Shah Jewna, and FCC.

A part of her died when Ganjee died,

but, released on parole from grief,

she reengineered her life - with Fakhar:

her cousin, neighbour, then husband, friend.

For them, happiness came in a silo set of three.

Umku, Shugoo, and Abid – your trinity

forms the tripod upon which your parents

balance the apex of their lives.

Today, Baji and Ganjee relive through them, and you.

Chando, by now you should be old. Yet, you are not.

You should be haggard, mildly bo-toxed. But you are not.

Hobbling? Toothless ? Hairless?  We may be. You are not.

Chando, for seventy years, you have brightened,

as only a dark-less moon can,

The grey night-scape of our lives.

Why, even a cousin-foe is now your fan!

Chandi, moon goddess by day,

let this Fakir’s word-crafted gift convey

the love we have always felt for you,

since your crescent first rose anew,

twelve times seventy moons ago.

F.S. AIJAZUDDIN, 17 March 2016