Happy Father's Day.

- Window Seat-Udayan Thakkar

- Sonora Smart Dodd of America and her five brothers were raised by their father alone. To express her gratitude, Sonora celebrated Father's Day for the first time on June 19, 1910.

2nd Sunday 30th June is Father's Day. Sonora Smart Dodd of America and her five brothers were raised by their father alone. To express her gratitude, Sonora insisted on a celebration, which resulted in Father's Day being celebrated for the first time on June 12, 1910. It is now celebrated on the third Sunday of every June - although some countries have set different dates.

We enjoy three poems to see how the concept of father is in different societies - first Gujarati, second Urdu and third English.

Rajendra Patel begins the poem 'Bapuji's wear' as follows:

This dusty

Fear of being dyed

Wearing Bapuji's old dress,

And his words came to mind:

Son, even if the dress is sewn together

Also keep clean.

Respectfully, it is said for the ideologues of the Gandhi era, 'He is a khadidhari.' Mahavir Tyagi writes in his memoirs that he was shocked to see the sari of Maniben, the daughter of Deputy Prime Minister Sardar Patel. Bapuji of this poet is not ready to be depraved, even if he does not get a bungalow-car. The poet himself is ready to walk the path of Bapuji and says-

As usual in the morning

Eibandh wore a new khamis

It seems that

I know that dress

The bone is present!

This is the poet's poem 'Bapuji's umbrella'. When the monsoon came, Bapuji's old umbrella was found in the garden. Tiny holes in the fabric. Old occasions came to mind. Bapuji was walking in a khadi dhoti-paharan-hat and 'walking all the way with him.' The true man is not afraid of anything. Bapuji was elevated.

'I saw Ba-Bapuji very close only in this umbrella.' Conservative society. The wife had to walk five feet behind her husband, except in the rain. At the end of the poem the idea of ​​an umbrella expands-

Often on dark nights

Full of twinkling stars

When I look at the sky

Looks like Bapuji

That's the black umbrella

Starry sky - Ajavas dripping from the umbrella with holes! Bapuji was taking care of his son. Now in their absence the above takes care. Before there was an umbrella, now there is an umbrella. The poet seems to move from father to father.

Popular Urdu shire Nida Fazli has recited a Nazm, 'Walid ki maut par.' Walid means father. Nida, who lived in Mumbai when her father died, could not go to Karachi to read (pray) Fatiha. He wrote-

I am at your grave

Fatiha did not come to read.

I knew

You can't die

Know the truth of your death

Whom to fly,

Wo jutha tha,

When are you

No dried leaves

Hawa se hill ke toota tha

The fact that the poet is addressing the father shows that his mind is alive. Why pray for the peace of the soul of one who is not dead? Even if the leaf turns yellow, the tree survives.

Merry your hand

Breathe in the fingers,

Whenever I write

I am carrying pen and paper,

You are sitting, I am yours

This is the chair I find.

I am sick of you,

You are my helplessness.

Gradually the matter becomes clear. The father is not dead because he lives in the son. In one of the Mushairas, Nida said that her toes were moving in her sleep, like Adal's father. Certain gestures, habits, and illnesses are inherited.

Jisne at your grave

Your name is written

Wo jutha hai,

I am buried in your grave,

You are alive

If you ever get a chance

Fatiha reads this.

In the end, a miracle happens. When the father dies, the veil falls on the time spent with him, a portion of the son is lost. The son is dead, the father is alive, so the father should come to read the history! The father-son relationship is also immortal.

Mark Strand is a modern American poet. You may be surprised but he has also written ghazals in English. His prose poem has appeared in the Penguin Book of Prose Poems. It is titled, 'Mysterious Coming of an Extraordinary Letter.' Mark Strand says-

'After a long day at work, I came home tired. I saw an envelope with my name on the table. My father's signature was, but he died forty years ago. I thought that maybe - nothing is decided, but maybe - they will be alive and secretly, somewhere around. Otherwise where did this envelope come from? Taking care of myself, I sat down, opened the envelope, and read the letter. 'Dear son,' it says, 'Dear son,' just nothing. '

How did the letter from Bapu, who passed away forty years ago, come about? Did they live secretly in the neighborhood? This is merely poetic-imagination. The father-son relationship was so close that at the age of forty, the son felt that he was here, around. The letter is not lengthy, but nothing is written, except 'Dear Son.' After saying all this, Bapu becomes silent as if the doom is full. Less written, read more. Why does love need words?

Where have we not seen fathers spending more than feeding the family? I remember the share of Shire Khalil Dhantejvi-

So much inflation

I bring something from the market,

I use my children

I'm embarrassed