This poem was written for my father shortly before he left us forever. While dedicated to my father who I respected and loved immensely his generation becomes a metaphor for the older generation that lived and worked in the British Raj. My father was the generation that had transitioned from being subjects of the Raj to those who literally created Pakistan following the Quaid “like Moses to the promised land of Pakistan.” The poem attempts to capture the predicament, dilemmas and challenges of that time. I saw in those forgotten files a photograph a fading daguerreotype of you, my father now so gentle white and near you, my father half-seen in the yellowing solar topee knee-long shorts and the Imperial stance the faithful servant of the Raj that strode a world so secure and warm under the never-sinking pink sun; misted autumnal khaki world: cricket flannels, Simla summers polo and pith helmets sherbet and shikar Indian heat and gymkhana retreat; Olympian security felt not always shared and the distant tread of gandhian feet naked in the night. Yours a simple wardrobe: the other native mask inturned, cloth-spun, clay-made that looked over your shoulder to a favourite Mughal to some Ghalib, Aligarh and even Iqbal. Inside: lapped about in the sure susurrant waves in the ocean of shared Muslim cultures, ruffled by the deeds of dead Muslim heroes. Outside: basked in the warmth of an Empire at high noon. You stood to attention when your father entered (or an Englishman) you walked your morning constitutionals (or played tennis if the sahib so wished) you fought to pull up babu standards (and to strive up to the bara sahib’s). But that misted subliminal stance on the two stocky legs of security and confidence I lack. In my repertoire: the Mao book, the American scheme the English tweed, the Indian dream the Mughal drug, the Muslim scream and I rest bewildered weary-legged and stooped in youth the forest is thick the night black and the sky-lights too many and the sky-lights too bright. I put back the gray daguerreotype with a little atavistic nostalgia a little admiration and some envy. The writer is the Ibn Khaldun Chair of Islamic Studies, School of International Service, American University, Washington, DC