Rehmoo Baba a poem by nosheen muktar Rehmoo Baba among the bushes with his axe, marks of time on his face gathered dried wood for fire, I walked passed him everyday, on my way to college on December morns.   Clad in white kurta and tehmad he stood strong against the fog, which suspended life, not his slow gradual movements under trees, chill pierced through my blue blazer and I rubbed my hands to make them warm.   He always declined any offers of help: "Bibi! you can not do this" and I knew I could never cut the wood and tie it the way he did. The lines on his face fascinated me and brown wrinkled skin of his hands made mine look strange.   He never agreed to trust his wood on my shoulder,I always eyed his with doubt thinking of his age .I never knew where he lived nor he did about me. We met everyday on my way to college. This December I dont see Rehmoo among bushes, only the dried twigs, motionless.